A Chance for Change
by Jeanne80
Summary: MacLeod, Methos, and other immortals are on a mission. Their goal is simple: peace and truth. The cost, however, may be countless lives, friendships, and one immortal's sanity. COMPLETED
1. Chapters 1 to 4

*Author: Jeanne

*Title of the Story: A Chance for Change

*Send Feedback To: jeca_97@yahoo.com

*Rating: PG-13

*Keywords: Action/Drama

*Character listing: DM CM M (mentions of over thirty others)

*Short teaser/summary (3 lines max).

Size: 500+ kb

Chapters: Twelve

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Disclaimer: The characters and the concept of immortality belong to Davis and Panzer, Gregory Widen, and others who are not me. The merely mentioned characters 'ALF' and 'Mac' aren't mine either. Everything else does belong to me, however. No profit is made, no harm intended.

Notes: 

-Timothy Wyatt and Dr. Amy Zoll maybe unfamiliar since they are from the Watcher CD. My knowledge about what is on the Watcher CD and in the novels comes solely from the Methos Timeline at www.methos.org. From what I can tell-- In "Comes a Horseman", Cassandra's watcher discovered Adam Pierson was Methos. She told Dr. Amy Zoll (Head Methos Researcher), Joe, and others. As a result, Methos' secret was out (though, in my mind, kept under watcher wraps. IE. only head people in Europe know who he is), and Timothy Wyatt became his watcher. After the Walker incident, Amy Thomas (Joe's daughter) left field work and went into research. Guess who she got to research? Methos, of course. Oh, and a novel says Marcus was killed so he doesn't really pop up in this story. 

-If any character does something that goes against information presented in season one of the series, or in the second, and third movies, I plead ignorance. Though, I know I am ignoring everything shown in 'Highlander:Endgame.'

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Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End.

"I had friends, Lots of friends.

Now all my friends are gone,

And I'm doing

The best I can to carry on.

I had power (power).

I was respected (respected).

But not any more.

And I lost the love of the one whom I adore.

Let me tell you about

Strange things are happenin' to me."

--('Strange Things' Lyrics By: Randy Newman)

France, 2036 CE

Duncan MacLeod crouched behind the rusty dumpster as he heard voices approach the mouth of the alley. He thought he'd lost his pursuers a few streets back, but no one could be absolutely certain of anything anymore. The voices' owners walked past and Mac leaned his head against the wall, letting out a breath of relief. A quick glance around the damp alley to ensure he was alone, and the Scot was digging an apple out of his coat. It was small, overripe, and wouldn't satisfy his hunger, but it was all he'd managed to buy with what little money he had left in his pocket. And it was enough to allow someone to recognize him this morning and then chase him into this alley.

Exactly when things became this bad, MacLeod couldn't say. The moment when he realized all Hell had broken loose was slightly more certain, but he still couldn't pinpoint it with one hundred percent accuracy. However, when the gates of Hell were cracked open... that he could say. He could even say who did it, where, and how. It was 10:46pm on Friday August 9, 2032 in Austin, Texas, USA and Riley McMasterson woke up.

At the time, Mac was relaxing on the barge in Paris. Joe was visiting his daughter, Amy, and her husband Tim (Methos' former watcher) in London. Amanda was somewhere in Europe, and Methos was heading back to the French capital. And in Austin, Texas, there was an execution. 

Riley McMasterson would go down in history as the worst serial killer the state ever had. He had brutally murdered over thirty-five blonde women and had smiled with pride when the details of their murders were announced in court. His sentence was an unrefuted death penalty that McMasterson seemed to like. He even agreed not to appeal the sentence if his death was broadcast. Methos had remarked that was odd. If the highlander had thought about it, he would have done something other than relax when Riley was put to death. If MacLeod had given the matter any definite consideration, he would have paid more attention to the man who had, half a world away, raised the oldest immortal's hackles. Unfortunately, he had not. Of course, in his defense, watcher files had stated the killer wasn't immortal. Riley was, however, vile, slick, arrogant, unremorseful, and four years ago at 10:46pm, courtesy of the lethal injection, he was the world's introduction to immortals.

Perhaps McMasterson had slipped through the cracks in the Watcher Organization. Perhaps his file had been one of the files destroyed in the fire at their headquarters. Perhaps he was just crazy, somehow knew about immortals, and turned out to be one himself due to a cruel twist of fate. Whatever the reason, Riley McMasterson, a man no one cared to save, was pronounced dead at 10:44pm and alive at 10:46pm. 

The creep knew how to make a reappearance too. Not only did he encourage the doctors and guards to kill him again, but he explained immortality to the gathered media while they readied the second needle. Again he revived and, thoughtfully, informed the world of the Game and that there were others like him... such as Duncan MacLeod, and Kenneth.

This led to Mac's discovery of what was happening in the southern state. It started with a Molotov cocktail being thrown onto the barge and was quickly followed by police and vigilantes arriving to 'question' him. He had narrowly escaped in the Seine and had been running and hiding ever since.

The most recent refuge had been invaded two days ago and the highlander had yet to learn of any other surviours. He had helped the Hearsts escape, but they had run one way and he had run another, trying to draw the attacker's attention. Whether that had worked was still under debate.

But so were several other escapes in the past four years. 

He had yet to run into Amanda or Methos. The knowledge was both a concern and a comfort. As loathe as he was to consider the possibility, MacLeod knew that the pair could have been killed already. They were slick, but not perfect and accidents did happen. The alternative, the option he preferred to believe, was that the duo were simply hiding themselves very well. After all, Amanda knew how to hide when she needed to, and no watcher had discussed the reformed thief. As for Methos, he had made hiding into an art form. Besides, no one, other than a selected few, knew what Methos looked like anymore.

The oldest immortal's identity had, luckily, been lost during the fire at Watcher Headquarters six years ago. Though, at the time, it seemed the most unfortunate turn of events. It happened late one night when the head of the tribunal was meeting with everyone connected to the Methos

Project. The old man had, once again, given Timothy, his watcher, the slip. The meeting was to discuss what should be done to keep Methos safe, but consistently observed. Their timing for the meeting was terrible, of course. An electrical storm was raging outside, when a bolt of lightning hit a transformer. It exploded. Subsequent explosions from spare generators and another powerful lightning bolt destroyed the watcher database. Later,

Methos had offered to help rebuild it ("Considering I'm the one who created it in the first place, I should do it again. Though this time even the prototype will have a password, and maybe I'll actually get some credit!"). Joe refused the offer on the basis that some watchers might have remembered 'young' Adam Pierson. But the night watchers were discussing 'Adam Pierson', sparks flew through broken windows, and open doors. Curtains and carpets soon caught fire. The flames spread quickly, too quickly. In fact, in minutes it became a gigantic blaze that claimed the lives of nearly everyone inside, and hundreds of files and reports. There were only four human survivours: Dr. Amy Zoll (Head Methos Researcher), Russell White (Tribunal President), Amy Wyatt (formerly Amy Thomas) and Timothy Wyatt. Most of the medical bills were paid by the Watchers. The remainder was handled by an anonymous donor (Methos) who insisted he only did it to make sure no

one talked about him. He didn't have to worry, though. Zoll, Russell, and Tim were in a coma for weeks. Dr. Zoll later died before she had regained consciousness. The former Watcher president died shortly thereafter, but his sanity was in question at the time so his frantic ramblings were considered nonsense. Amy and Tim, by then good friends with the oldest man, agreed to keep his identity a secret. In return, Methos had given them a new home in London ("It's just taken me awhile to get the right wedding present. You don't have to act like it's bloody bribery!"). The couple recovered in that luxurious house and researched Methos at home ("Every time I visit, they don't ask 'what's new?' They ask questions about what's old."). Perverted fortune smiled on everyone again years later. When the news that "The Texas Devil Returns from the Dead and Announces Names of Fellow Demons" reached Paris, no watcher mentioned Adam Pierson or suggested who

Methos might be. 

That didn't mean some of them didn't reveal the true names of several other immortals, though. Half of the watchers were naming names, showing pictures, and encouraging society to hunt immortals. The other half, led primarily by Joe, argued against the practice, naming honourable immortals, and describing events where mortals were assisted and/or saved by immortals. Joe had been taken to jail, charged with treason for aiding immortals, and, last Mac heard, was still in prison for his 'crimes.' He still spoke out, as best he could considering, but good ol' Riley McMasterson had convinced more than enough mortals that immortals were evil demons, destined to kill them all. Names used by either side of the watchers merely led to more hunting and more killing. 

It was mortals who were the main killers. The game was, unofficially, postponed. Most immortals hadn't cared for taking heads in the first place. And with the majority of the mortal world after their heads, they were more inclined to trust one another. Granted, there were still headhunters, but their numbers were low now. The young ones killed by immortals, and the older ones killed by the task forces' designed to 'protect society from the undesirables'. Task forces like the one that had charged into the old newspaper factory near Bordeaux and forced the over four hundred year old to be alone once again.

Mac looked around the alley, searching for a discarded paper. It could tell him what happened to his friends and, with any luck, suggest a place where he could run to and not have to run from later. But a paper wasn't in sight. 

He could guess what happened to Susan and Gerald, anyway. And he knew there was nowhere he'd be welcome. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was just too famous to know. The task force hadn't even bothered asking for the others. They'd just asked for him and then stormed the building.

His sinking into the depressing memory was interrupted by the buzz of an immortal and Mac was quickly running to the entrance of the alley, staying in the shadows. He eagerly scanned the surrounding area, hoping to see a friend. Maybe it was Methos looking for him to explain some great plan that would solve all their problems. Or perhaps it was Amanda just passing through on her way to a secret hideaway. Or... it was a guy in his late twenties he'd never seen before. 

MacLeod considered going to the young man, introducing himself, asking for a place to stay, or offering his protection. But he'd done that with Susan and Gerald, and now they were most likely dead. So he watched instead. The stranger was lanky, with blonde hair, and was eyeing a car someone had thoughtlessly left running infront of a grocery store. He'd never get that car though, Mac realized. Not when those men with the rifles were heading right for him. The boy wasn't even looking.

Cursing the boy's inattentiveness, Mac ran across the street. The man was momentarily confused by a charging stranger yelling something about getting down. But, noticing the sudden action to his right as the would-be killers began running toward him, the man raced into the grocery store with the Scot hot on his heels. They wove their way through the crowded aisles and backroom, ignoring the protests of customers and staff. Out the back door, down another alley, and round a corner, Mac and the young man ran while hearing guns being fired behind them.

"Friends of yours?" the highlander shouted, feeling a bullet breeze past his hand.

"More like strangers who didn't appreciate a known immortal helping their fair Emile home when she twisted her ankle," the man replied as they ran across a street, dodging cars and the continued spray of bullets.

Chancing a look back, MacLeod saw drivers getting out of their cars to complain to his pursuers. The men didn't stop to trade curses, but they did slow down. The black-haired man could only hope the delay would last until they found a place to hide.

"Which way am I headed?" the stranger in front of him yelled, obviously expecting his saviour to know a safehouse.

"Uh--" MacLeod's answer (a definite "I'm not sure") was cut off by a bullet grazing his shoulder. Their pursuers were healthier, faster, and knew the territory. The buzz of another immortal brushed against Duncan's senses. He didn't have a good feeling about this.

"You know that guy?" the young man asked, pointing at a jeep speeding towards them on the wrong side of the street. Its driver was a slim bald man, with a long face and an aristocrat's nose. Not someone MacLeod had ever seen before.

"Need a ride, fellas?" the new arrival called out with a New York accent.

The jeep came to an abrupt halt beside them, and Mac and his new companion climbed in the back. The gun-toting good citizens were shooting again and the previously complaining drivers were coming to help. As a bullet went through the windshield, their rescuer laughed. "Hang on!"

And hang on they did as the jeep jumped to action again. It was seemingly heading straight for the shooters before making an unbelievably sharp U-turn and was then racing in the opposite direction, on the wrong side of the street again. Cars swerved out of the way as the vehicle sped toward them in a twisted game of chicken, and Mac had the creeping suspicion that he'd been safer with the men with guns. A few more sharp turns, through a field, with the Scot clutching the door until his knuckles were white, back onto a paved road, and the jeep slowed down, as did the beating of Mac's heart.

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Chapter 2: The Road To Friendship.

"Everyday is a winding road

I get a little bit closer

Everyday is a faded sign

I get a bit closer to feeling fine."

--('Everyday is a winding road' Performed By: Sheryl Crow)

"So, where to?" the driver asked conversationally.

"I, uh, I..." Duncan ran a hand over his face, trying to remember if there were any friends living near... wherever he currently was. "I don't know."

"I don't have anywhere either," admitted the young man beside him.

"Well, you're in luck then. Not only have ya been saved from that oh-so ugly mob, but you're about to get a place to stay. It's safe. It's sweet. It's even kinda cozy at times."

"Thank-you." Mac closed his eyes for a second, savouring the feeling of peace that came with that promise of safety. "I swear my services to you and yours in return."

"That's good, but we'd have taken them anyway," their rescuer laughed. "So who's your quiet buddy?"

"I don't know," Mac confessed with a sheepish grin. "I met him just before you did."

"The name's BJ and I'm over fifty. You don't have to talk like I'm not here," said the young man indignantly. "I didn't even ask for your help."

"But you needed it," the driver calmly pointed out. "And you look like you needed food two days ago. If you reach under your seat, there's some fruits and vegetables. You can have a pear and some grapes, but don't go overboard, 'kay? That's gotta feed a lot of people at the Shelter." 

"Thanks." 

"As ALF used to say, No problem."

"ALF?" BJ raised his eyebrows. 

"Alien Life Form, kid, and obviously from a show before your time. No offense."

Mac watched BJ shrug before introducing himself. "I'm Duncan --"

"MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Yeah. I'm Arthur of the Clan Wellington. But you can call me Artie. And I know all about you," the bald man informed him. "Don't worry, though. Your cousin has had everyone scouring Europe for you ever since we found him. Connor's single-handedly burnt your face into my memory on the off-chance I might see you one day. I hate it when he's right."

"You know where Connor is? Is he all right?"

"He's just fine, Duncan," Artie assured him. "So are Amanda, and Gina, and Robert, and Cory, and a dozen others who've asked about you the moment they were found."

"And they're all at this shelter?" Mac couldn't believe his ears. They were all okay and safe?

"'Fraid not. Just Connor, but the shelter's connected to, like, twenty other sanctuaries. Gina and Robert and most of the others, you can talk to, but Amanda... hers isn't as secure and she ain't always in. You could probably get a message to her. I can guarantee she'll call back."

The highlander was having trouble absorbing all of the information. "Who else do you have? Did you find a Susan or Gerald Hearst? They escaped from a newspaper factory two days ago."

"Hearst? Hearst? Nope. Sorry. But hey, there's a lot of independent shelters in this world. They might just be in one of those." Artie reached down for something, a microphone, and then fiddled with the radio until the jeep was filled with the sound of static. And then began speaking in a language Mac had never heard before. When he stopped, a voice came from the radio. Unfortunately, the speaker was using the same language as Artie. By the end of the conversation, the only word MacLeod had understood was 'Jimbulaya.'

The radio was turned off and the jeep was speeding up. "Okay, anyone here not speak 'Shelter-ese'?" Artie asked.

"If that's whatever the Hell you were speaking just now, no," BJ replied. "How about you, Duncan?"

"I think I heard Jimbulaya," the Scot admitted.

"Alright then. Jimbulaya is a code name for the guy we're about to meet in about four to five minutes. And the rest of it was pretty much telling him where I am and who I have with me," he explained. "The language we use is sort of a mixture of a lot of other languages, mostly dead or lesser known ones. It takes only a day or so to get it."

"Yeah, it's a day or so IF you know some dead languages to begin with," BJ complained. "I'm gonna be lost for months."

"Oh, now that's Sweet Pea's genius. The vocabulary is unbelievably small and simple. It just seems like we're saying a lot because we get to throw in new words from time to time." 

"That way if someone is listening in, they won't be able to figure out your code," Mac thought aloud. "That is a good system."

"I'll tell Sweet Pea you said that," Artie commented as a gas station came into view. 

Soon, the jeep was pulling inside the garage where a van was already running with its doors wide open so that the goods could be transferred quickly. A burly man hopped off a stack of tires as Artie turned the engine off. The man, presumably Jimbulaya, had dark skin, a pearly white smile, and looked like he could plow anyone down if the mood hit him right. His rough voice with just a hint of a southern accent definitely suited him. "Greetings everyone."

Introductions were brief handshakes sandwiched between carrying bags from the jeep and statching them in the van. That job complete, Artie and BJ climbed in the back of the vehicle. Mac and Jimbulaya worked on disabling the jeep. The highlander took out its distributor cap while Jim removed the radio and hid it under a trap door beneath a stack of tires. If any task force found the jeep, they wouldn't think that it was being used.

Jimbulaya claimed the driver's seat while Mac accepted shotgun. "Everybody ready?" After three heads nodded, the van moved out of the garage and back onto the road. "We arrive in an hour and a half."

The welcome news was quickly followed by the radio being turned on, and soft music flooding the van. Mac had never heard the song before, but it had a good rhythm and the voice was low and soothing. For the first time in weeks, the highlander's body was truly relaxing. And everyone in the van seemed to know it because they were keeping quiet. They all simply savoured the tune. And the two that followed it before the news came on. That's when Mac's body tensed again. Reality returned.

"This is the quick 'Headlines Around the World'." Announced the DJ in French. "At home, Duncan MacLeod and two cohorts eluded the task force again. If you see him, call the police but do not approach. He is considered armed and dangerous. Yeah right, friends. From what I can tell, the perfect trap would be making an old woman cross the street alone. He should be there in two minutes to help her. Moving along, the vigil outside the hospital hosting Joseph Dawson continues. Dawson, convicted of treason nearly three years ago, was admitted last week complaining of shortness of breath and other ailments. He was diagnosed with pneumonia and is expected to be fully recovered in a few more days. Authorities insist that his illness is not due to any mistreatment. Police have yet to be called in to monitor the daily vigils. Jumping over to Tibet, the Dalai Lama has publicly denied reports that the oldest living man is hiding in one of the monasteries. Though he admits Methos may have visited Katmandu before. This statement comes just two days after the massive riot by protesters which resulted in twenty-three injured and three dead monks and abbots. Armed peace-keepers have now been called in to keep anti-immortal protesters out of the peaceful nation. In lovely China, two scientists have confirmed that the decapitated man reported to be the Legendary Methos is actually Yan Sing Ling. If that name doesn't any bells, don't worry. Apparently, Ling isn't even a hundred years old. Sorry, Yan, you must have looked really old. Over in the Western World, Canada and the United States are joining forces to demand that the International Task Force release reports about their immortal testing. Remember that rumours have been circulating for months that the ITF is performing 'inhumane' tests on the immortals it has taken prisoner since its formation in early '33. The ITF continues to deny the allegations, stating that they do not harm humans." The DJ snorted, "Comforting thought considering the ITF has already stated its belief that immortals are not humans. Coming back onto this side of the ocean, London scientists have released new evidence proving, yet again, that Methos is the oldest immortal. Previous stories have suggested that Methos was not the oldest, but that immortals were merely using the entirely fictitious myth to hide the true identity of oldest immortal. However, according to a three year study of Watcher and Archeological records conducted by Doctors Norman White and Francis Cappella that is not the case at all. They contend their findings not only prove that Methos is from the tail end of the stone age and that no other immortal has survived as long, but that he is, in fact, fact. This means the official five Most Wanted Immortals are (drum-roll please): Methos, Cassandra (who is well over a thousand years his junior), Marcus Constantine, Hans Siegard, and Ceirdwyn. It also means the prize for Methos' head is up to three million francs. If you ever wondered what a life was worth, there's your answer. And that concludes 'Headlines Around the World'. Next up, some 'Ice Melters', Rogers, and the sweet guitar sounds from my friend Brines. First, though, we have the voice of the Rose singing her newest hit, 'The Passion', on Paris' favourite station, River."

Duncan MacLeod didn't listen to the music though. He didn't even hear it. For a moment, he had felt peace. For a moment, he could believe that things would work out. But that news cast had ended that moment. It had obliterated the moment, in fact. Joe was sick in a hospital Mac couldn't visit. Mortals were closing in on Methos. The place the old man had often referred to as his "eternal sanctuary" was now off limits; perhaps forever. Immortals were being used as experiments and political red tape would keep those unfortunate human beings locked up in their cages for who-knew how long. The world was as ugly as he remembered it. 

But the Shelter still held promise. It had friends who would welcome him. It had people who could help him save Joe and Methos. It had a sense of safety. It contained hope.

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Chapter 3: Home Is Where The Heart Is

"Hey, ain't it good to know that you've got a friend?

When people can be so cold.

They'll hurt you and desert you.

Well they'll take your soul if you let them.

Oh yeah, but don't you let them."

--('You've Got A Friend' Lyrics by: Carole King.)

The trek to the Shelter wasn't easy. First, one had to enter a large forest without, according to Artie, using the same route too often so that a path wasn't worn into the ground. Second, one had to maneuver through the lush forest until he/she spotted a nearly hidden entrance to a cave. Third, after covering the van with a heavy camouflage blanket, one had to cautiously enter said cave, making sure not to trip any alarms. Fourth, one had to slowly find his/her way through dizzying tunnels. Finally, if one was lucky, he/she would come to a large steel wall and door which separated the damp, dingy cave from the welcoming Shelter. 

Before Artie entred the secret code into the keypad on the metal door, he turned to the other immortals. "Maybe you ought to give those bags to Jim and me. The shock of, uh, presence can be kinda overwhelmin'. It isn't so bad after awhile. And you'll get used to it when you're inside."

"Yeah, to the point you can't sense us from the mortals," Jimbulaya put in.

Conceding to the voices of experience, Duncan and BJ handed their bags to the other immortals and prepared for the worse. The worse, it turned out, was a powerful gust of force pushing against their bodies and plowing through their souls. It was a sudden headache, attacking their bodies with a ferocity unlike anything they'd thought possible. Slowly, after a series of deep breathes, the gust became a light breeze until finally the storm was over and they could stand straight again.

"Ready, fellas?" Artie asked, edging toward the open doorway. BJ and Mac shared a glance and then nodded their mutual agreement. "All right. Away we go."

At first glance, the Shelter was neither sweet nor cozy. The room they were in, a mess hall, looked rather plain. The large room was littered with ordinary tables and chairs. The flat white walls were mostly bare. There were a few square holes covered by grates in those dull walls, probably for ventilation. In addition, the floor was hard. It looked even more plain than a school's cafeteria.

However, at second glance, the room had a splash of life in it. Sitting at some of those tables were people; smiling people, laughing people. Hanging on a few walls were pictures; some professional, others obviously the creations of children. The air held a sweet aroma- someone was cooking a stew, and there was the sound of laughter coming from a connecting room. The floor still wasn't as soft as carpeting, but it did have a shine; a sparkle caused by the hanging lights on the ceiling. More people were walking on the floor, as well. Somehow, buried deep within a cave, life was flowing freely.

Once again, Duncan's heart was filled with gladness and hope.

"Not exactly home, sweet, home," Artie admitted, drawing the highlander's attention. "But it comes amazingly close at times. Mostly thanks to Sweet Pea."

"Sweet Pea?" BJ asked, amused surprise playing upon his features.

"Don't knock the name," the New Yorker warned him. "Or the man. He's the guy running this place and he gets to say if you stay here or not."

"Oh, Artie." Jimbulaya glared at him. "Sweet Pea wouldn't throw these two out and you know it. So don't try scaring them."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the bald man said dismissively. "Look, why don't you and BJ take these supplies into the kitchen? Duncan and me can meet with Sweet and authorize everyone's stay."

The blonde of the group didn't look enthusiastic with the option, but grabbed the bags Artie was carrying anyway. "Fine. I'll go and do work while the great MacLeod gets to see Sweetie Pie. But if anything funny happens, I wanna hear about it."

"Deal. Now, let's get a move on," the largest of the quartet said, already walking away.

"Don't get him wrong, Duncan," Artie said, watching as BJ hurried to catch the southerner. "Jimbulaya isn't really so serious. Only when it comes to food. He's been a chef a few times over, you know. I swear, the moment he came here he became the unofficial head cook."

"That good?"

"Well... he knows how to organize a kitchen... just not how to use it to perfection. 'Course, the ingredients aren't really here." The American shrugged. "At least that's the excuse he uses." 

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the famous Duncan MacLeod!" a stranger shouted as he walked in the room. He was a short man with a full beard. His brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. He would have looked like a decent man in this thirties, if it weren't for his arrogant strut.

"Duncan, this is Liver. Liver, Duncan," Artie said as an unenthusiastic introduction. Liver didn't seem to mind. "Unfortunately, Liver is leaving to do rounds now."

"I'm not doing rounds when we've got a livin' legend in our presence." Somehow it sounded more like an insult than a compliment. 

"Excuse me?" Something had clearly erked Artie.

"I said I'm not doin' rounds, Art." Turning his attention to the highlander, 'Liver' smiled again. "So, seen Connor yet?"

MacLeod's response was cut off by Artie before it crossed his lips. "What do you mean you're not doing rounds? The schedule said tonight was your night. You can't just brush off security like that. You--"

"Look, this place is sealed up tighter than your butt. No one's going to attack us tonight or tomorrow night or even fifty thousand nights after that. Now I want to meet the guy Connor's had us lookin' for." 

"You can't shrug off your chores, Larry!" For the first time since Mac had met the bald man, Artie looked absolutely irate. "This place won't be attacked tonight because we have patrols. That is, IF you get rid of that attitude. Now get out there before Sweet Pea finds out. He'll give you a graveyard shift for months for sure. You wanna play poker with Peaches again?"

"No." Liver rolled his eyes. To MacLeod, the act generated a mental image of a teenager being reprimanded by a parent. He squashed a laugh. "It's just for tonight, Art. One night won't make that big a difference. You know that."

"Yeah, and I know Methos could be visitin' us one day. And if today's that day, he ain't gonna appreciate you not guarding his place."

MacLeod was no longer entertained by this exchange, but incredibly interested. Methos was around? He knew of this place? His place??

"Methos isn't coming tonight." Liver sighed, "BUT... I suppose talkin' to Mac could wait. If it means you'll get off my back."

"Hey, I'm off. I'm off." Artie raised his hands in mock surrender, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.

"Sure" Liver.. or Larry, whatever his name was, didn't buy the act of course. However, he didn't force the issue. Instead he waved a brief goodbye and then exited the way they had entered. "See ya."

His departure barely registered with MacLeod, though. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the information he'd just heard. "Methos, he's alive?"

"Alive and well. He set this whole place up too." Artie gave a grand gesture encompassing the entire room. "Not all that impressive right now, I know. But once you've seen all it has to offer... geez, it's a miracle any of this is possible. I mean, directly to your right is the kitchen. Two ovens, a grill, tonnes of dishes. Next to that, we've got Joe's. That's the name of our rec room," he clarified at Mac's shocked expression. "That's the marvel here. You're talkin' instruments, carpeting, music system, pool table, the whole nine yards. I don't know how he did it. No one does."

"But he did it? Methos, THEE Methos, did this? All of this?" The man who preferred lounging in a bar to discussing a serious topic had created this haven? It was clearly meant for more than just a few people. That didn't sound like the "I didn't last five thousand years by worrying about anyone but myself" Methos who'd stolen his beer ("I don't steal beer. I borrow beer. It's not my fault no one asks for it back.") and laughed at the Scot's "moral dilemmas". Perhaps it was another impostor. "Are you sure?"

"Yep. He furnished this place himself. Put in the ventilation pipes and generators, chairs, tables, you name it, he brought in. That's the story the De Valincourts gave anyway. But they aren't liars and the legend himself has kept updated on this place since the beginning. I know it's hard to imagine. Methos doing all this when I was so sure he was just a myth," Artie responded. "I was told he was just a myth since I became immortal, but this all says that's not true. If my teacher was still alive, he'd probably die of shock."

"But he did this? You've seen him, talked to him?" MacLeod's head suddenly hurt. If Artie would just focus on what Duncan was desperately trying to say, on what he meant to ask, maybe the pain would go away.

"Who? Methos?" Who the heck did the darn yank think he was talking about? 

"Of course, Methos! Have you seen him? When does he come by?"

"Sorry, Duncan." Artie's grin faded a little. "He doesn't call or visit. He writes, though. We have his letters tacked up in Joe's. They aren't much, mind you. Just notes really; mostly filled with orders disguised as friendly advice, and some comments about the outside world thrown in here and there. The old guy's got a sharp sense of humour and knows his alcohol." Or maybe it wasn't an impostor. "You should read his take on his banishment from Tibet. How he was ever allowed in one of those monasteries in the first place is beyond me. He said--"

"But have you seen him?" Mac interrupted Artie's babbling, finally honing in on his question. "Does he.. he call you from one of the shelters connected to this place? Can I talk to him?" 

"No... to, well, all of the above." Artie grimaced. "Sorry, pal. Like I said, he never visits and never calls. He just writes. The letters get sort of telegraphed over. I don't know all the particulars. But that's as close as any of us has gotten to the man. Probably as close as we're gonna get until this war's over. We've got no pictures, no voice recordings, no return addresses, no videos, no handwritten words of wisdom or of any real hope. We've just got his place, his jokes in those typed letters, and the simple belief that one day he'll stop by and shoot the breeze for a bit. Not great and irrational as Hell, but the kids seem to like it. On really bad days, I think all of us like it too."

"If Methos managed to make this place, I'm sure he'll find a way to see it again." MacLeod tried to sound comforting and certain, but his heart wasn't in it. "He's probably just waiting for it to be safe. No point in making this place a fortress if one visit will destroy it, right?"

"Oh, you don't have to tell me. I've recited that line to many people who've passed through, gets less believable each time." Artie shook his head, losing the pessimistic thoughts swarming his mind. "We're supposed to be seeing Sweet Pea right now, and you need to get a tour of this place. Shall we?"

Conceding to the change of topic, MacLeod gratefully followed the slimmer man down a bending corridor to their left.

"All right, the first door on your right: gym. First door on your left: storage closet for clothes, blankets, soap, brooms, everything but the kitchen sink, pretty much. Second door on the right: dojo which sounds like a gym clone, but it's not. The gym is more of an exercise and weight room. The dojo is for sparing, practicing moves, katas, etc, etc, etc," the shorter man sang. "You still have your sword?"

"Surprizingly, yes." MacLeod automatically brushed his hand against the concealed sword's carved hilt. "Why?" 

"'Cause this door here on your right is the weapons locker. All the guns, knives, swords, and other lethal objects that could possibly fit in a room that small have been shoved into a room that small. When you're comfortable, you can leave your sword in there. If it looks like someone else's, there's some masking tape and a pen hanging by the door to mark your blade. The next door here on the left leads to the Comm. room. That's where we get Methos' letters, reports from other shelters as far away as Vancouver--"

"You mean the shelters connected here aren't connected *here*?" Mac asked, slowing down.

"They're connected by radio transmissions. The equipment is as old as Methos, but that's why it works. While the rest of the world is using video phones, we resort to CBs, old satellite phone connections, and, on occasion, even morose code. The messages are as clear as a bell... well, almost. But they're untraceable and the ITF has yet to break the encryption code. That's why we're all allowed to use the equipment to call family and friends at least once a month. I mean, you've got to schedule your time and it's no more than thirty minutes a week. But it lessens the risk of one day thinking someone died without knowing you cared about 'em. That's another reason why we like Sweet Pea. When Gina and Robert ran the joint, this place felt like a guarded castle. The first day Sweet came here, he had us make up that schedule, cut back patrolling hours, set up story time for the kids, and actually ordered everyone into Joe's for a celebration." Artie stopped at the fourth door on the right. "And that brings us to this door. Appropriately, Sweet's office. Don't worry, he likes to act tough in front of the newbies, but the guy's like a pussy cat. No matter how superior he acts when laying down the law, just remember he's played "Hokey-Pokey" with the kids more than twice." With that warning said, the New Yorker opened the door and ushered the anxious Scot inside.

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Chapter Four: Remember all the important questions.

"In good times,

And bad times,

And all the other times, forever more

That's what friends are for."

--('What friends are for'. Performed By: Dionne Warwick.)

The office was, in a word, cramped. The back wall was lined with two crowded bookcases. A few feet before those wooden structures was a chair and a small desk cluttered with stationary, an intercom radio, pens, and an extremely outdated laptop. Another few feet away stood two large arm chairs, duct tape repairing tears in their backs. A couple of feet infront of them stood Mac and Artie. The walls on either side of them were decorated with maps and possibly reports. In the corner to Mac's left, there was a short table with a pitcher of water. At the opposite corner was another short table. This one hosting a chess board MacLeod would have recognized in a second if his attention wasn't focused solely on Sweet Pea.

Both men were momentarily speechless. Pure surprize etched upon their faces until realization that they weren't dreaming finally hit. Then that shock was replaced by smiles which threatened to split their beaming faces. Mac's mind was racing to find something intelligent to say, find something that was an appropriate greeting. But his friend was getting closer and his brain wasn't doing anything besides telling him how unbelievable the moment was to see Methos/Adam Pierson/Stephen LaSapien/... the aliases continued to flow. Finally, he just gave up and resorted to saying whatever could make it to his lips. "Adam." He took hold of Methos' hand and gave it a firm shake, trying to discreetly prove to himself that this wasn't a dream.

"Mac!" His oldest friend (in terms of age) wasn't content with a mere handshake. Instead he used Mac's hand to pull the Scot into a bearhug. "It's good to see you!"

The highlander thumped his friend on the back twice before releasing him, and taking a step back to observe the man he hadn't seen in over four years. Methos was wearing a deep blue shirt buttoned up to the collar and tucked into his black slacks, not his old sweater and jeans outfit from the old days. There were other changes too. The hair was a bit shorter, the voice had been constricted (either by sudden joy or ingrained sorrow), the eyes were slightly more tired, and a grin that big had rarely ever graced his face. He was leaning on the edge of his desk too. His usual relaxed sprawls momentarily forgotten. Yet, despite all the changes, MacLeod knew he was still looking at the man who taught him to accept life and change. The man watching him right now with those perceptive hazel eyes, was still Methos. 

MacLeod felt like he was going to burst with joy. If only his mind would process something else and allow him to say something again... anything. But his mouth kept moving up and down without any words escaping. Luckily Methos wasn't similarly handicapped. "Well, this is a splendid surprize." Perhaps realizing what little help Mac could provide at the moment, the oldest immortal turned his attention to the other man in the office. "How'd you find him?"

"True to his reputation, he was helping a kid named BJ escape some rather nasty fellas. I thought they could use a lift," Artie explained, slowly edging his way out the door. "I didn't know you knew 'im, though, or else we would've got here sooner."

"Forget it, Artie. Why don't you find that, uh, BJ kid and show him around while I talk to Mac." His smile was shrinking, becoming his usual grin again. "We have a bit of catching up to do."

"Sure thing, Sweet. I'll have Mac's room and new clothes readied. And I'll keep him under wraps until supper. If he gets this reaction out of you, I've gotta see what ol' steel face does." Chuckling softly, the bald man closed the door behind him and Methos looked at Duncan.

"He told me you built this place, that you were alive and operating this intricate system of shelters." The highlander shook his head slightly. "I couldn't believe it. I thought you'd be alive, but... never all of this. I mean... how? Why? When? How?"

"You said 'how' twice and forgot 'who' and 'what'." Methos gestured for Mac to sit in one of the arm chairs before he folded his arms across his chest. "The best place to begin this explanation would probably be the beginning which goes back over two hundred years. About 1813 or '14, I won this land in a friendly game of cards. It never hit me as being anything important, just nice scenery with a minable cave. But it was a lousy mine, Mac. I had to close it down before I... well, before my identity at the time, went broke. I swear I sunk more money into it than I've ever gotten out of it. Didn't end up looking at the cave again until after I'd left Byron. I came back to see what I could do with this crummy chunk of property and found out that it could make a great hide-out." Methos glanced around his surroundings. "Not the best, but I'd had worse and the miners had gone so deep no one in their right mind would find me. So I worked on the place for years, setting up wooden walls against the stone ones, putting down a floor--"

"But how did *your* hide-out turn into 'The Shelter'?" Duncan asked, trying to keep the explanation focused.

"You've never been patient in your entire life, have you?" The lean man shook his head in mock disgust. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, I worked for many years. I was sort of forced to take a break from World War One until after World War Two. Slowly got back to work, trying to perfect my sanctuary. But, this place was just for me and when I started losing interest in... well, losing interest in life, in general... I just forgot about the Shelter. Then I joined the Watchers and suddenly I didn't really need a hide-out. Then Horton came along, and Darius was killed, and... Ian, Darius' watcher, needed something to focus on for awhile. So I brought him here, under the pretense that my father had left the property to me and I needed someone very experienced to accompany me when I inspected the place. We followed the rigging and tracks from the old miners and myself, 'discovered' this haven, and decided we could use it in case another Horton ever popped up. That's when a lot of the finer details were added. Ian told Don and his brother, Luke. Every weekend until Ian got reassigned, we came here and worked. Those were great weekends. We'd be yelling questions about this immortal or that chronicle while easing the pool table down the tunnels with the rigs, or taking turns translating an old letter while arranging the kitchen for proper ventilation. While organizing chairs and tables, we'd debate about who else we should tell. Joe was considered, but Luke had heard rumours that our friend might have gotten close to his subject. None of us wanted to risk an immortal knowing about this place so we never asked him. Of course, we couldn't think of anyone else we knew we could trust with the secret. Then Luke had a fatal heart attack and less than a year later Ian died. Don and I were still trying to finish the library down here when Kalas killed him. After that, this place was just a tad too haunted for me."

"So you just left it until McMasterson came along?" Duncan inquired, wondering how his friend could consider staying here when the place probably saddened his heart. 

"No, I left it until I realized my friends might need a safe haven. I mean, I didn't tell Joe or Amanda where I went, but I tried to get rid of all the rigging and tracks while you were off in Malaysia."

"What?!" Mac was out of his seat the moment the admission registered in his mind. "You thought I'd gone crazy so you left Joe all alone to work here?"

The elder of the pair gently pushed his junior back into the chair. "I thought I could have been wrong about your hallucinations. If I was, we'd need a place away from the rest of society to defeat your demon. If I was right, we'd still need this place to hide you until we could help you."

"You were gone for nearly two years." The statement was tinged with frustration and anger, not a combination the oldest immortal preferred.

"Mac, it's not like I abandoned Joe, buried myself here and didn't know what was happening in the world. I stayed with Joe until long after the funeral that, might I add, I paid for. When I was sure he was going to be okay, I said I needed to do something and that I'd be gone for a while."

"Two years," MacLeod repeated.

Methos trudged forward. "The comm. room was fully functional by then. I knew where you were, how Joe was dealing with things, even what Amanda was stealing at the time. If I'd found something useful or saw that I could help, I would have. But you weren't hurting anyone and there wasn't any definite proof that there was a demon. And then, when there was possible proof... believe it or not, you didn't look like you needed me. You know, if it wasn't for Walker I don't know that I would have ever come back. I didn't think you or Joe would want me around." 

"Of course, we wanted you back!" MacLeod started. "Do you know how many times I asked Joe if he had heard anything about Methos or Adam Pierson? How many times Amanda asked about you? The De Valincourts sent a postcard from Tahiti for you; not for me, for you. Everyone who knew you wanted you back, you old goat!"

Methos seemed unimpressed. "Mac, you were trying to move on with your life; everyone was. No one wanted me coming back, bringing all those bad memories."

"They weren't all bad memories!" The Scot was out of the chair again, but his friend wasn't pushing him down this time. "I could have used your insight and I know Joe would have loved your company. And if you really didn't want to come back, you wouldn't have been in Paris to see Walker."

"The question wasn't whether or not *I* wanted to come back. It was whether you or Joe wanted me back. Besides, I knew I could still work down here and I did want to see the world again. I figured everything worked out."

"So, you, what?, wandered around, and worked on a place for friends you didn't think wanted to see you again?"

"I never said logic was my forté." Methos was moving away from the highlander, putting the desk between them. 

"Methos--"

"Just let it be."

"Methos!"

"You know you should start calling me Adam Pierson again. That's the name I'm going by these days since Robert had to tell everyone that I was Pierson."

"Don't change the subject!"

"I'm not changing it. I'm returning to it. Remember: who, when, why, and how." He said the words with such innocence, MacLeod wondered if he'd actually been happy to see this man. "The DeValincourts, your pal Keane, Cara, Cochrane, and Ceirdwyn finish the original who's. I was watching McMasterson on the Internet. The second I realized what he was doing, I contacted them and had them start up shelters. Keane runs the basement of my fitness centre, your former dojo, in Seacouver. Cara took an old villa I had near Italy. After your friend Cochrane took over the reins, she started one near Bordeaux. Ceirdwyn and Nick run her place in Dublin. You know, I hear it was love at first sight for those two. Just like Gina and Robert, who are now running the basement of the Watcher's former headquarters in Paris. That fortress was my best buy of '96. Of course, until I telegraphed the happy couple as myself, they were supervising this place."

"So you did all that?" MacLeod's anger had settled somewhat; now curiosity was driving his thoughts, "But h--"

"How?" Methos' grin had returned in full force. "I just sent them all emails or faxes with information only they would know, or a friend of their teacher's, or, unbeknownst to them at the time, a watcher. I told them what was going on, where they were needed, what to do, and then signed my name. From that, other bases were set up all over the world, linked by the radio systems and codes I suggested. That's why everyone knows I set up the network. I didn't know how well it would work, or even if it would. Of course, to hear Keane tell it, Methos knew all along." The elder man rolled his eyes. "If he only knew how long it took me to send the first letter by Methos. I have another computer in my desk that lets me send the messages. It worked pretty well at the old HQ, but it's much easier here. I mean, I'm closer and don't have to bounce the signal anymore. Anyone traces the letter and, like always, they're led right back to the Shelter where Methos hasn't visited since before Riley woke up. This place is great for privacy too. I've been able to send short get-well messages to Joe. I would have organized a party to get him out, but the security around him is too intense. Just to let you know, the best scenario has a forty-percent survival rating and Joe isn't included." Methos released a slow breath. "Well, that's the who, when and how."

"That leaves the why."

"The 'why'," Methos repeated thoughtfully. After a moment he pointed to the chessboard behind MacLeod. "I paid a kid to sneak into your barge and take that. I didn't know where you were, or if you were alive. I didn't know if I'd have anyone to play with. Nevertheless, I asked that brat to steal Darius' chess set for seventy francs I could have used. I didn't even question why. I--" 

"What does that have to do with anything?" Duncan interrupted, sensing yet another evasive answer.

"Patience, Mac, patience. It's not just a word," Methos chided. "You see, I didn't have to question why. I knew I wouldn't be happy without it so I took it. It was as simple as that, as simple as this is. Thirty years ago, I remembered how to 'live, grow stronger, and fight another day'. Ever since then, I've been working to make sure I never forget that again. Why did I do all this, Mac? The better question is why wouldn't I do this. If I didn't, I wouldn't truly be living. I'd be hiding from people and life again. And, as a good friend once pointed out, that just makes me weak." Methos was leaning against the side of his desk, no longer needing a barrier between him and MacLeod. "See? Simple reasoning. I wouldn't be happy without friends so I keep shelters running and bribe Joe's doctors and guards to make sure he's okay and that he knows everyone's fine. I wouldn't want to tell Joe that Amy and Timothy are hurt so I gave Matt-- you don't know him-- strict orders to guard them. I wouldn't be happy if Darius' treasured chess set was lost so I took it. That's the 'why', Mac, in all its glory."

Duncan could only stare at the man before him. It always amazed him how as strange and twisted as Methos' logic could be, it constantly managed to make sense. "Methos, I think you are the only person in history who could, selflessly, take the proverbial bullet for someone and act like you did it just because you wanted the lead."

"And on that note, I think it's time you left. I have some reports to read over and you need clothes that aren't torn and dirty." Turning to the radio on his desk, Methos held down its red button. "Is anyone free in there?" 

There was a pause after he let go of the button. Then, "I can be there in a minute, Sweet Pea." 'Sweet Pea' again. MacLeod made a mental note to ask Methos about that.

"Good. I need you to give a tour to a friend of mine while I deal with the schedule and the reports you were supposed to deliver ten minutes ago, Pear."

Another pause. "They were late coming in. We're still waiting for Cara's, and Gina's just started transmitting a minute ago. I'll bring what we've got and Kiwi says he'll bring Cara's whenever she transmits it. Out, Scout."

"Don't think you've weaseled your way out of telling me what else you've been doing," Duncan teased.

"Wouldn't dream of it." A mischievous glint was in Methos' eyes. "But right now, I do have work to do. All part of the glamorous role as Commander. I'll see you at dinner with Connor and you'll have plenty of time to get the story out of me. Or at least, plenty of time for you to try."


	2. Chapters 5 to 8

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Chapter Five: More Than Meets The Eye.

"You can't hide your lyin' eyes

And your smile is a thin disguise.

I thought by now you'd realize

There ain't no way to hide you lyin' eyes." 

--("Lyin' Eyes" Performed by: The Eagles. )

There was a light knock on the door and Methos moved past the highlander to answer it. MacLeod began plotting how he'd get the truth out of the old man. Methos' alcohol tolerance had yet to be beaten and there probably wasn't any beer or liquor in the Shelter so that wouldn't work. Maybe a game of twenty questions. His train of thought was instantly derailed when he saw the expression on the face of who he assumed was Pear. The man, in his late teens or early twenties, looked like his long time pet just died.

"I'm sorry, Sweet," the boy hesitantly said while handing some discs (the reports) to Methos. "Cara's place was hit late this morning. We think it's an unauthorized raid by the ITF and that's why it wasn't in the news. The known survivours made it to the DeValincourts less than thirty minutes ago... Samuel and Lucy aren't among them." Methos was suddenly a terrifyingly good imitation of a statue. "We verified the report. They may have made it somewhere else, but Cara isn't sure. I'm sorry, Sweet. We all are."

"Do we know how this happened?" Methos' lips were moving. That was his voice. Yet, somehow it didn't seem like he was speaking. The question was void of all emotion. Had his eyes even blinked? "How did the ITF find them?"

"Apparently, a young couple brought their son on a shopping mission. He talked to a stranger. Robert said the guy's description matches that of ITF Agent Hughes." Pear coldly recited the facts before his emotions slipped through. "Danny didn't know any better, Sweet, and no one realized he was gone 'til it was too late. They had prepared to leave when the family got back, but... it just wasn't enough, I guess."

"I see." Did he? Methos' eyes seemed empty. The plane maybe flying, but someone had definitely switched to autopilot. "All communications except ones with the DeValincourts are postponed until after Kiwi has sent copies of the report to all eighteen bases. I want a complete list of injuries, and deaths (confirmed and suspected) sent to Methos at once. I will be in my office reviewing this information to prepare my own report for Methos so no disruptions unless absolutely necessary. Understood?"

"Yes, Sweet. Rosemary's already sending the copies and preparing the list. She knew you'd want that."

"Good. Now take MacLeod to his room. Make sure he knows where everything is. Mark his comm time for... nine-fifteen until ten tonight. Have Kiwi teach him the equipment. Rose needs the break."

"Got it." Pear turned his sad eyes toward Mac and the highlander's heart sunk even further in his chest. "Ready Mr. MacLeod?"

He wanted to say no. He wanted to grab Methos and shake him until the oldest immortal's stone mask cracked, until those hazel eyes showed signs of life again. He wanted to ask Methos who Samuel and Lucy were and get a tear-filled answer. He wanted to tell his friend that things would be okay and know his friend would believe him. He wanted Methos to act like any of the information after Samuel and Lucy had actually registered. He wanted to see that wry grin spread across the old man's lips and hear that accented voice with that ever-present tone of amusement say this was all part of some sick initiation ritual. He neither did nor got what he wanted. Methos wouldn't have wanted either, anyway. The Scot took one last agonizing look at Methos, gave his condolences to "Adam", and then left the room. The cold silence in the office as the door was gently closed behind him was one of the worst things Mac had ever heard.

The highlander and his guide were silent for a minute while they walked away from the office that seemed to be emitting a cold wind. When they were far enough away for the man's tastes, Pear stopped and turned to MacLeod. "Do you know who Samuel and Lucy are... I mean, were?"

"No, I was hoping you could tell me." 

That obviously wasn't the answer the boy with a buzz-cut wanted. He lowered his eyes, sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was very low. "No one could tell you, but Lucy and Samuel. They were the only people Sweet Pea ever tried to call. He never told us how he knew them or who they were. He can give and give, but... it's like he always holds back too." Another sigh. "I was hoping since you called him by his real first name that you'd know something."

"I'm sorry. I haven't seen Adam in years, and he never mentioned them before. I wish I knew something to tell you."

Pear scanned the highlander's face, noted the sincerity in the statement, and gave a bittersweet smile. "Come on, I've got to show you the rest of this place and get back to work before something else happens." The young man began moving down the winding hallway again. "The door on your left leads to the comm. room. That door's not used much so you should knock before opening it. Unless you'd like to see how quickly Rose can tackle you to the ground. From personal experience, that lady is dangerously fast and the floor is, like, rock hard."

Mac's muted laughter was stilled as the pair walked into a wide cavern. There was a natural spring extending from the centre to the other end of the area. Hanging lamps illuminated the way to five other lit corridors. "That," Pear pointed to the one directly to their left, "leads to the men's restroom. It's pretty much fancy piping leading to another underground spring not connected to the big one here. But, hey, it works. The tunnel next to it," his finger moved again, "is for the ladies. Old joke is that any man who goes into that one won't be a man when Sweet Pea finds him. Sweet always laughs at that, but no one's dared test him." The digit pointed to another tunnel. "That leads to the generators and ventilation fans that make this place livable." The stubby finger swung to indicate another corridor. "That one takes you to the library. It isn't much though. A lot of empty bookshelves, but the books that are in there, are really good. You've got classics, new works, joke books, and I think the kids put the magic book back after their show."

"Their show?"

"Sweet Pea and the kids put on a magic show a few nights back. Peanut did mind reading. Mushroom made a coin disappear. Almond, Bean, and Cherry sawed Seed in half using two boxes and a cardboard knife." Pear's smile grew. "It was great. Though, I think Salami is still looking for his watch from Jellybean and Sweet's trick."

"Why does everyone have a food for a name?" MacLeod inquired, realizing that it wasn't just a few people with unusual names.

"You can thank Jimbulaya, Artie, and good ol' Sweet Pea for that." Pear turned to look at the highlander, postponing the rest of the tour. "I wasn't here at the time, but I heard what happened. As the story goes, when Adam Pierson came here, Jimbulaya aka Jim LaFontaine started calling him 'P'. Within a day, it became 'Sweet P' because all his changes were 'sweet'. Artie had always called Jim Jimbulaya 'cause the big guy's a chef. Anyway, when the kids heard the nicknames, they said they wanted code-names too. I guess to make the stay more pleasant, Sweet Pea, Jimbulaya, and Artie came up with names for everyone. Artie's name is supposedly for Artichoke. Your cousin's is Haggis. I'm Pear because my name's really Percy and it just sort of goes on like that. Kiwi aka Lou is unique and really hairy. Rosemary's real name is Rose-Marie. Peanut's is Penilope. Uh, Jellybean's really Jenny, Bean's Ben, Almond's Amanda, and um, Mushroom is Matthew. You'll get a name too. Your friend BJ's already being called Beef Jerkie. The trick is not to get offended. The names aren't insults, just pathetic ways of lightening up the mood."

"This may take a bit of getting used to," Mac commented before Pear began walking toward the last lit hallway.

"This takes you to the sleeping quarters. In reality, it's just, like, seven small rooms and then two gigantic ones." He stopped walking. "The first three on your right here are for newbies, like you and Beef Jerkie. This way you can sort of ease yourself into the collective, as it were. The next door leads to the big one. That's for the guys. About twenty thin-mattresses on a creaky, rotting, wooden floor. The blankets are thick though so you won't get cold and there are some heaters too, just in case. For doors on the left here, we have: first the Commander's quarters. That's where Sweet Pea sleeps. Then there's the room for the women and children, and then the conjugal rooms. Your lady love comes by and you two want to make with the love, you have your pick of three well soundproofed rooms. Apparently, they weren't that sound proof when the DeValincourts first came here. But after, like, two nights, work to thicken the walls started up. Now, you can't hear a thing. There's a one night limit per month, though. If you keep moving down, you'll get to Joe's, the kitchen, and the mess hall." Pear opened one of the doors and, seeing clothes neatly folded on the end of the mattress, stepped inside. "This would be your room, Mr. MacLeod."

"Please, no mister. Mac or MacLeod will do just fine." He walked into his new room. Pear's dismal description of the rooms was unfortunately accurate. A single hanging lamp lit the nearly bare room. A pile of sheets lay in a corner while a thin mattress was pushed against the far wall. It looked remarkably like a prison cell.

"I'd appreciate the Mister if I were you. By tonight, you'll be called a food." Pear patted the Scot on the shoulder with a chuckle. "Which reminds me, supper'll be in about an hour. There's a clock under those sheets, in case you don't have a watch. It's probably hidden somewhere behind the old magazines, cd player, and CDs. Salami thinks it's funny to hide stuff like that," the young man said while rolling his eyes. "Now, since you arrived so late they might not've been able to take stuff out of the stew. If you find something in it you don't like, just take it out and don't worry. They'll follow your list next time."

"My list?" MacLeod's forehead creased with confusion. "What list?"

"Didn't they ask you what foods you hate before you saw Sweet?" Pear asked, clearly shocked by the news.

"No. Artie explained a bit about Methos and then gave me a tour to, uh, Sweet Pea's office."

"Oh, well then this tour's far from over." The man sank down to the mattress. "All right, when you go for supper, grab one of the forms hanging on the wall to... well, it'll be to your right if you take the hall we were just in. The form will have big, bold letters saying "I Can't Stand..." so you can't miss it. Write out any foods you can't stand and then put it in the kitchen. Someone'll help you if you get lost in the maze of counters. Now, we get a lot of crazy foods in here. I mean, fried grasshoppers, haggis, ants, flowers I coulda sworn were poisonous. So, if you've tried termites before and were sick afterwards, you might want to write that on the form too. The cooks usually prepare two dishes. If one has your dreaded termites, the other will be termite-free. But, and this is a huge but, if you've never tried termites before and just don't want to try 'em, don't write them on the form. Sweet Pea'll probably finish off the termites if you find they do make ya sick. The guy's got, like, an iron-stomach. He usually suggests those freaky foods. So, he'll have no problem eating what you've found ya hate. But, you gotta at least *try*. Not just because our resources are seriously limited, but 'cause the kiddies need the protein and that. Some of those bugs and flowers are really good for them and because of Salami saying he didn't like liver.. the food, not the guy here.. most of those kids wouldn't touch the stuff for days. Artie had snuck, like, ten pounds of the stuff in here and the kids didn't want to touch any of it. Luckily, Sweet and Salami had a lil' chat and the next night Salami tried the stuff. Turns out the bozo likes liver with onions, just didn't like his mom's cooking."

Mac sat beside Pear, giving his legs a rest. "Anything else I should know?"

"Plenty. For supper, our water is in a pitcher at the front. The mortals' water is in the bottles."

Duncan looked sharply at his tour guide. "You're immortal?"

"Yeah." The, now possibly old, young man replied, as if that was the most absurd question he'd ever been asked.

"But I didn't sense you. How do you hide your presence?"

"You ever put on cologne and after awhile you can't smell it?" Mac nodded. "That's what happens to an immortal's presence when you get twenty-one of us in a place this small. All our 'waves' are still here. It's just your senses have been over-sensitized. You can't feel any of us individually anymore. Didn't anyone warn you?"

"Jimbulaya said something about it. I just didn't realize how right he was."

"Don't worry, Mr. MacLeod. You can still tell who's a member of Club Deathless. Just listen for jokes about history or stories that begin with 'I came back to life this one time...' If that doesn't work, then you're either talking to a mortal or a young immortal like me. In that case, just ask for an age. If the person gives you one, they're a mortal."

"This may take a lot of getting used to." Mac revised his earlier opinion.

"Oh, it does," the youth admitted. "The main tunnel maybe oval shaped, but you can still get lost. And the kids love to ask if you feel 'higgledy-piggledy', or if you can stand 'akimbo'."

"And if I said yes..?"

"Then you'd be feeling disoriented, and could stand with your hands on your hips and your elbows pointing out," his tour guide laughed. "Part of the kids' storytime is spent learning a new word. I don't know how Sweet Pea knows all those silly words, but every week they'll hunt you down and ask you a question with their new word. This week's is mucker."

"Which, if I remember correctly, means-- friend?" Pear nodded his head. "Why do I get the feeling I should be writing some of this down?"

"Don't worry, you'll get it in time. It takes awhile, but one day you'll be able to give tours just like this." The young briefly patted Mac's back as physical reassurance. "But you will need to know the rules SO getting back to water. Ours comes from the spring and is supposedly safe. It was tested years ago and no major levels of deadly bacteria found-- or so I'm told. In case that changes, then at least we revive. The mortals don't have that option, especially since the kids get as young as three 'round here. So, we bring bottled water in for them. There's a nice couple who run the gas station you went to, the one where you met Jimbulaya. They've been stock piling the bottles in their cellar for years, bought it all thanks to a huge cheque from the old man himself. I don't know if Denise or Al ever met Methos in person, but I think he knew Denise's father from a war." The youth shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, that's the water rule. The curfew rule is that the kids are in bed by nine-thirty. No later and no exceptions. Everyone else goes to bed at their leisure. Though, 'their leisure' tends to extend as far as eleven-thirty. The only people up after that usually work the, affectionately named, graveyard shift. Uh, the bath and bed rule is: don't be shy. There's a small waterfall in each restroom so you can use that for quick clean-ups. But that big spring you saw is the bathtub in here and everyone uses it. Times are from eight to eleven in the morning, and then from seven to twelve at night. That way, for about eight hours, the bath has time to be cleaned out. As for the bed, when you're moved in with the rest of us, you will be changing in front of us. Well, everyone except Sweet. He manages to clean when no one's around, and he changes in his room." He looked at MacLeod, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Hey, you wanna settle a bet?"

"What bet?" he asked hesitantly.

"We've got a pot going on why Sweet Pea doesn't change in front of anyone. It's up to three hundred and forty-eight francs, I think. Two to one odds say he's just really shy. Three to one says he's got this embarrassing tattoo. And the odds are four to one that there's some strange scar that he wants to hide 'cause it's too painful or something. I put ten francs on the tat, myself."

"And you think I've seen him naked?" Mac's eyes were wide as he realized just what Pear was suggesting.

"Not in a sexual way!" the young man quickly assured him. "I just mean you knew him before this war started or at least before he got the name Sweet Pea. Maybe you guys went swimming together or something. He doesn't hit me as the type to hate the water after all the sailing he's done. Or maybe he got drunk one night and told you. Or he was in a challenge and a rip in his shirt revealed that "Mother" tattoo. I mean, okay so that challenge idea is as far-fetched as they get considering how little he uses the dojo, but he can't possibly hold his liquor. You must've heard something at least, right?"

MacLeod tried unsuccessfully to stifle the chuckles erupting in his throat. "Adam-- Sweet Pea-- he, he, uh, he's just-- he's just different. He does what he does for his own reasons and, trust me, you'll never really figure them out. Even when he explains them to you."

"Ah, figures." Pear shook his head, frowning. "You know he's like 'Hamlet.'" Noting Mac's confused expression, he continued, "In high school, I had to read Hamlet. I thought I could understand Shakespeare. I mean, "Romeo and Juliet" and "MacBeth" I got easy. But that "Hamlet"—I read it, knew what the words meant, but couldn't get exactly what the story was really all about. And that's Sweet to a T. I see him, know what he's saying, but can't for the life of me figure out the 'why'."

"That's Adam all right," the highlander agreed. "His reasons are clear to him. He just likes to hide them from the rest of us."

"But why?" Pear looked directly at him, his eyes suddenly pleading for a glimpse of understanding. "I gave him that report and he must've known we'd all know he'd be hurting. You saw what he did. Put up that damn mask that just holds all his pain inside like we didn't know it was there. You must've seen the look when he went still. Those lifeless eyes staring at me. God, I've seen it so many times, but never that bad!"

"How many times?"

"I've lost count," the young man snorted, breaking eye contact with MacLeod. "I'll give him a report on the latest casualties and he'll get that damn look. He won't say who they were, though. He won't even admit he knew any of them. But his eyes will get the 'void'-look to them, and then he'll stay in his office until supper. You know, you just *know* he lost someone he knew-- a friend, a teacher, a student, or God, a lover! But he just acts like nothing happened. Just eats supper, talks and jokes, tells the kids their bedtime story, and then hides in his room. As if this entire place is blind to his pain! And why? Like this place isn't used to handling loss. Do you know how many times I would've loved to hear him say he needed someone to talk to? How many times any of us would have loved to hear him admit he lost someone dear? But, nooo. He just lost the only two people we know he really cared about, and he acted like they were nothing. Nothing! The only people he ever called when it wasn't about shelter business, when he actually asked for privacy, and he didn't even double-check to make sure they were dead. He didn't run into the comm., or ask for details. No, just 'how'd it happen?' Why?"

"I don't know," came the sorrow-filled reply.

"You know, I think everyone here'll mourn Samuel and Lucy's deaths just because of Sweet." Pear sniffed. "We'll cry for them without knowing anything about them besides their names, where they were, and that they were Sweet's friends. They could've been the worst couple who ever walked this Earth and he just talked to them to keep 'em out of trouble at the base, but they'll be missed. God, I hope our prayers are enough 'cause I don't think he'll bother." 

"He will," MacLeod assured him. "Adam tries to stand tall when he loses someone, but I know he cries inside and I'm sure that, when he's in his office or in his room, he is thinking about them."

"But he needs more than that." Pear's voice was strained. "The others may not notice it, but I do. He's staying in his office more and more. I've seen the scraps of papers all over his desk. They're finished reports and schedules. I don't know what he does in there anymore, but it isn't working on what he says he's working on. We used to have to remind him when he could use the comm to talk to Lucy and Samuel. The last couple of months, though... it was like he couldn't forget them. At first I thought he'd finally gotten it into his thick skull that his appointment was on the second Thursday of every month at ten pm. But—I think maybe he talked to them. Not about who died, but something that made him smile when he left that room. I think he really needed that. I swear, getting to see a smile that reaches his eyes is like winning the lottery. And no one's won that jackpot in months." The young man let out a heavy sigh. "I just want to know he'll be all right, MacLeod. Sweet Pea was so nice when my teacher died. He said that "keeping those feelings inside isn't helping anyone." You know, when I said I didn't know what to say, he took some blank paper and a pencil out of his desk and told me to draw Denis."

"Did that work?" Maybe he could use that technique on Methos. If his grief was deep enough, the old man might not realize what he was doing.

"Nope, I can't draw much more than stick figures." A faint grin floated across the man's lips. "I don't think he expected me to draw anything, though. Sweet just took the paper and pencil, and told me that he'd draw the picture. He said he thought he'd seen Denis' picture before." Pear shook his head. "I don't know who Sweet Pea drew, but whoever it was, he wasn't Denis. So I told Sweet what was wrong with the portraiture and slowly-- bit by bit—he fixed it. By the time the face looked right, I had told Sweet everything about Denis; the way he could arch just one eyebrow, and wiggle his ears, and how he always seemed to woo women despite his crooked grin. I still have that picture too. Sweet was right about keeping those things inside. You think if I asked him directly, he'd let some of his feelings out?"

"Probably not," Mac admitted. "Tonight, I'll talk to him. He has told me things in the past that-- I don't think he shares with a lot of other people."

"Thanks." Pear stood up, a sad smile on his face. "I should be going. The guy we're talking about is probably wondering what hole I fell in. I'll see you at supper."

Mac waved good-bye as the young man exited the room, fully intending to talk to Methos. But things didn't work out that way. Before supper, he only had time to change his clothes and use the restroom to quickly wash-up. During supper, Mac was swarmed by other inhabitants of the Shelter asking what he'd been doing for the past four years. Connor, on the other hand, only spoke up to say he missed his cousin and that the Clan MacLeod, though not publicly, still accepted them as kinsmen. Then, Jimbulaya announced his name was 'Chicken' because some old movie called "Chicken Run" had a Scottish chicken named Mac. The burly man said it was fitting. Also, Jellybean did ask if he'd be her mucker and Cashew wondered if he'd knew how to stand akimbo. They were surprized he knew what they meant until Pear confessed to spoiling their trick. Though, Peanut caught him off guard when she asked if he really was airy-fairy. Luckily, Pear was there to whisper what the word meant and Duncan could honestly say he wasn't unrealistic-- at least not all the time. After supper, Mac couldn't interrupt 'storytime' and had been persuaded into practicing in the dojo by Connor. His reluctance to leave Joe's was eased when his cousin pointed out how everyone else was watching Methos. Even the kids were sitting closer to the old man. After a few rounds in the dojo, Mac had to go to the comm. Kiwi really was a hairy man and had an unusual fashion sense. He certainly wasn't colour coordinated. But the man did know the equipment and Mac had been able to talk to Gina, and Alistar MacLeod-- considered chieftain of the current 'clan'. However, he was only able to leave a message at Amanda's base. Once his time was up, Mac was pulled into a poker game since Methos had already gone to bed with strict orders not to be disturbed. By the time the highlander went to bed, he was promising himself that he'd talk to the oldest immortal the next day.

****

Note: The definition I use for 'mucker' is British. The

Canadian definition is for a rough hockey player. 

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Chapter Six: The Cut Heart Bleeds. 

"Now the hardness of this world slowly grinds your dreams away 

Makin' a fool's joke out of the promises we make 

And what once seemed black and white turns to so many shades of gray 

We lose ourselves in work to do and bills to pay 

And it's a ride, ride, ride, and there ain't much cover 

With no one runnin' by your side my blood brother 

--("Blood Brothers" Lyrics and Music By: Bruce

Springsteen.)

Every time Duncan closed his eyes, he could see Methos' face. As disconcerting as that was in itself, it was made worse by the old man's expression. It was the way Methos had looked when he had discovered his friends were quite possibly dead. His eyes were hollow, as if their life had left with Samuel and Lucy. The face was cold, warmth having left it as well. His features, frozen and the lines were deep grooves in his alabaster skin. Mac couldn't bear to look at it for more than a second, but it wouldn't leave him. He had seen that mask before too. Methos had worn it when Alexa had died. As well as when Byron and Silas had been killed. The strong armour he'd worn every time someone he cared for died was on again, and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had failed to remove it again. One of his closest friends was hurting inside and he'd done nothing to ease that pain. 

Finally deciding to confront the ancient, Mac got out of bed and headed towards Methos' room. His friend wouldn't appreciate the late visit, but it was doubtful that Mac would be interrupting a good dream. Unfortunately, instead of being in a fitful slumber or staring blindly on his bed, the slim man wasn't in his room. Though, there were noises coming from the mess hall.

Upon inspection, the noises' creator was an older gentleman with a fluffy beard. He was clad in a plaid shirt and jeans with suspenders, and was eating some grapes while readying a table for a card game.

"Excuse me," Mac whispered.

The man's head shot up, examined the person before him, and then smiled. "You must be Chicken of the Clan MacLeod."

"Yeah, that's me, Chicken." Smiling, Mac stepped forward to shake the man's outstretched hand.

"I'm Peaches so don't get too upset, son." The comment did make him feel better.

"I won't." He looked around the mess hall, checking to see who else was around. There was no one. "I was looking for, uh, Sweet Pea. Is he going to be playing tonight?"

"I don't honestly know. The others'll be back from patrols soon, but he usually sits in later at night, when he's decided he just can't go to sleep. He might since Lucy and Samuel died. They were close friends."

"He told you about them?" Mac watched as the bearded man quickly shuffled a deck of cards.

"Nay, Sweet Pea can give everything, but himself." Peaches looked around without explaining his statement. "Since I heard you're a good friend of his, I'll tell you something." His voice dropped to an even softer whisper. "When he isn't in his room or office or out here, Sweet likes to hide down the lit tunnel just beyond the room for the generators. I've never gone down there, but he told me once that in an emergency I could. Just keep to the right, I think it was."

"You must be a good friend too, if he told you that."

"Uh-ugh." The man shook his head, a smile evident despite the whiskers. "I just watch out for the child."

"Child?" 

"Hey, I was born BCE and he wasn't. Anyone that young can be called a child in my book, kid."

"Thanks." Mac began leaving the room, a smile still on his face. "Have fun with your game."

"Goodluck with Sweet Pea, Chicken."

Goodluck was certainly needed as Duncan wound his way through the maze-like tunnel. He had already come across three forks in the path, and, if Peaches had been wrong about sticking to the right, he was as good as lost. The further he crept, the more certain he was that he would find Jimmy Hoffa sooner than he'd find Methos or his way back. Rounding yet another damp corner, Mac spied a small flickering torch hooked to a wall in a cavern up ahead. He hadn't realized how far from the shelter he had traveled until he felt an immortal signature. His smile increased as he approached, despite the nagging thought that he didn't know if it was Methos he was about to see.

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Chapter 7: Seek and ye shall find

"On through the houses of the dead past those fallen in their tracks 

Always movin' ahead and never lookin' back 

Now I don't know how I feel, I don't know how I feel tonight 

If I've fallen 'neath the wheel, if I've lost or I've gained sight 

I don't even know why, I don't know why I made this call 

Or if any of this matters anymore after all." 

--("Blood Brothers" Lyrics and Music By: Bruce Springsteen.)

The first thing Mac saw when he entered was a little fire burning in the centre of the spacious cavern. The second was a very small spring pushed against the back wall. Next were the torches attached to the walls adjacent to the natural pool, helping to light the area. Then came Methos sitting in an alcove in the wall directly opposite the fire and spring. He was gracelessly tossing pebbles over the light source and into the water. The dancing flames cast eerie shadows over his angular face which refused to acknowledge the highlander's presence. It was a strange scene and for a moment all Mac could do was stare.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, can't sleep?" That snapped the Scot out of his mild trance, though Methos' attention was still focused on the natural pool. 

"Not a wink." Hesitantly, he walked toward the older man and sat beside him, nearly banging his head off the stone ceiling in the process. The other man didn't seem to notice. "This is a nice, little... uh--"

"Hide-away?" Another pebble flew through the flames and into the stone-surrounded pond. "So, want to talk about what's keeping you up?"

"What?" Mac's brow furrowed in confusion. He was certain that was supposed to be his line. 

Another pebble made it into the spring.

"Well, you obviously came here to talk. Either that or you got lost on your way to the loo." The man still wasn't looking at him. "So... what did you want to talk about? What happened to... Susan and Gerald, wasn't it?"

The situation was becoming more surreal every second. Mac fought the sudden urge to pinch himself and prove that this wasn't a dream. "How do you know about them?"

"In the same manner I suspect Connor found out I was Methos; someone told me."

Another pebble traveled to its mark. 

"Who?"

"Well, he said it was you."

"No, I meant who told you about Susan and Gerald."

"Oh, that was Artie. He has a tendency to babble." Methos hesitated before he threw another stone. "There's an independent refuge about a mile from that old factory you were staying in. They don't normally communicate with us, but we've traded goods before. The next time Artie goes out, I'll have him swing by the place and check for your friends."

"Thanks."

"It's nothing." The elder of the pair shrugged. "Anything else you want to talk about? How the Marlins are doing this year? The weather?"

"We haven't talked about how the Marlins are doing in ten years." Mac scooped a pile of pebbles into his hand and began lazily tossing them into the calm water as well. When in Rome, after all.

"Yeah, but I hear they're doing good this year. They may make it to the World Series again."

"Do you still have the baseball from the last time they made it?" MacLeod inquired, watching as his pebble disappeared just beyond the flames.

"Of course! It's the best souvenir I've ever gotten!" The next stone Methos threw soared well above the fire and hit the far wall before splashing into the spring. "It's safely hidden in my desk, where no one can dirty it or clean the blood stains off."

"Those were the good old days, weren't they?" Mac wistfully asked.

Like that the air of happiness was sucked from the room, replaced by sadness and tension. "The good old days never existed."

Another stone dropped into the clear liquid.

"Sure they did," Duncan responded, immediately remembering times he could easily call 'good'; going to that baseball game was one of them. As well as going to a boxing match with Richie, seeing an art exhibit with Tessa. A huffed "Whatever." interrupted his thoughts.

"Look, MacLeod, if you're feeling better now, maybe you should go back to your room and get some sleep. Keep going left this time and you'll find your way out eventually." 

"I'm staying until you tell me about Samuel and Lucy."

Methos glanced at his friend, gauging the highlander's determination. Sighing, he looked at the pebbles in his hand before turning his gaze back to the main light source. "They were friends."

"That's all?"

"They were good friends." A pebble landed in the spring.

"How did you meet them?"

"None of your business."

"Fine. What were they like?"

"None. Of. Your. Business."

"All right, what did they look like?"

"What is this? The bloody inquisition?!" A pebble forcefully ricocheted off the far wall into the water.

"Nothing of the sort. I just want to know what you clearly want to tell me."

"What I *want* to tell you?" Methos shook his head, chuckling.

"If you didn't want to tell me something, you would have told me to leave already."

"I did."

"You would have made me leave. One way or another, you would have driven me out of here. So what is it you want to talk about?"

"There's that 'want' word again, MacLeod." Another small stone sailed through the flames and into the pool. "I clearly don't *want* to talk about it. Hell, I don't *want* to talk about anything right now. But you keep using that word. As if I want to do anything, but relax and toss some stones in that pond." Seemingly to make his point, the old man threw a pebble into the spring. "Of course, I suppose I should have expected that. You saying 'want', I mean." The strong rage in his tone melted away. "Everyone makes mistakes like that. Like when they use 'should' improperly. "The mortals *should* stop killing us." "There *should* be no headhunters during the war." "Only the evil people *should* die." While they're telling me that, the mortals and headhunters *are* killing good people. You'd think someone would clue into that." He shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway. Or at least it won't."

"What do you mean?" MacLeod's brown eyes narrowed, his gut saying he wouldn't like the answer.

"Leave it be and go to bed."

"What did you mean?" Mac repeated, his voice as solid as steel.

"I came to a conclusion tonight." Turning to face the highlander, Methos caught his gaze and held it. "Tomorrow, I'm going on unsecured broadcasting frequencies to present a peace treaty to the world. They should take it seriously when I mention that the legendary Methos will discuss it in person at a conference held in Paris."

MacLeod brain stopped working for a second, unprepared for the onslaught of thoughts his friend's announcement had caused. "Methos, that's, that's-- it's dangerous, irresponsible-- they'll kill you! They'll trace you back here-- it'll ruin everything you worked for-- I can't believe you even suggested this! It's ludicrous, suicide! Have you gone mad? Your plan-- it's, it's--" he sputtered. "It isn't even a plan! It's, it's-- a kamikaze mission. They'll--- you'll--- what were you thinking? Were you thinking?!"

"Are you through?" Methos calmly asked, looking bored. "The broadcast won't trace back here. The treaty is good enough that they won't kill me on sight and it won't ruin anything I've worked for."

"There has to be some other way besides revealing yourself." The highlander was frantically searching for an alternative course of action. "There are other options."

"Oh, I know another option." The older man broke eye contact to look at the clear liquid gathered in the pit in the cavern. "I spent fifteen minutes in my office today working on the other option, preparing instructions and figuring out who I should contact to implement the plan. I had the maps copied and the agents picked out and finished my letter from Methos to explain why I was ordering the attack. Then I spent another twenty minutes convincing myself that a nuclear war was a bad idea."

"A nuclear war?" Again the highlander fought the urge to prove this was all some twisted dream. "You can't be serious."

"It would solve our problems, Mac." 

"It would kill everyone and everything, immortals included!" His wide eyes glared at his friend.

"Raise your hand if you survived Chernobyl." Methos briefly lifted his hand. 

"You? But--"

"As far as any watcher would know, Adam Pierson was in England, battling the depression caused by the sudden death of my dearest aunt from my obscure past. In truth, I was still healing from the effects of checking on Silas. Never did get to see if the big guy was okay." He sniffed. "It isn't fun or easy, Mac. You die thousands of times in tremendous pain until you finally make it somewhere that isn't radioactive. Several weeks later, you've recovered and are as good as new-- with a lot of nightmares. They last awhile longer. But the bottom line is that we'd live and our hunters wouldn't."

"Neither would Joe or Amy or any of our other friends!" Duncan knew his shouts were echoing. He knew he was letting his anger get the better of him. He also knew he wasn't helping the man who had risked his neck to save Mac from a dark quickening. And if said selfless man would act a little sorry that he had intended to kill billions of innocent people, Duncan would have cared. "How could you even suggest this?"

The answering voice was a mere whisper compared to MacLeod's. "Because they will die anyway. Because I can't stand being forced to hide down here for who-knows how long. Because--" Methos sighed loudly. "This is what I didn't want to talk about until tomorrow, Mac. Can't you just let it be 'til then?"

"You can't tell me you had the nearly irresistible urge to destroy life as we know it and then expect to talk about it tomorrow!" MacLeod took a deep breathe, trying to calm himself. "Why would-- Why? Is this some Horseman instinct you're not suppressing? Is this what Kronos--"

"Don't bring him into this." Methos slipped out of the alcove. The voice remained low, but had gained strength.

"He tried to kill everyone before and now you want to--"

"I don't *want* to kill anyone!" The slimmer man glared at his friend, anger shimmering in his eyes. "I just *need* this to stop now and that's one of the best ways to do it."

"That sounds like Horseman-logic to me." The younger man returned the glare. "You're justified in killing numerous innocent people because you want something now and can't calmly and rationally find another way to get it." 

"I hate to burst your bubble, but my plans were always calmly and rationally thought-out, MacLeod. I know you like to think of them as crazy impulse-driven acts of violence and terror, but they never were." Methos shot daggers as he spoke. "It's so easy for you to past judgment on all of this, isn't it? To say that because you don't understand the 'why' it means we were simply homicidal maniacs?"

"What would you call a group of insane people who murdered or tortured everyone they met for fun?"

"I don't know. We didn't do that." A feral grin spread across the older man's face. "But that's all you think we did, isn't it? As a game, we just rode out, stole supplies, burnt down homes, and killed every innocent person we could find?" MacLeod just silently looked at him. "Well, now that helps explain why you never brought up the Horsemen all these years. You think we were just four lunatics on horseback, killing people as we went for a cheap thrill."

"You said Kronos set villages on fire to watch them burn." The highlander pointed out.

"He did. He lived to conquer and he conquered with fear. Silas was with us to fight for animals and Caspian came along because, well, he was just unbalanced." The amused expression hadn't left Methos' face.

"And you joined because you wanted to be Death?" The Scot raised his eyebrows, disbelieving what his longtime friend was confessing.

"I did." After waiting for the gentle admission to sink into the highlander's brain, Methos resumed his speech. "Back then, the world for us was how it is today, only worse. Us being hunted and hated for what we are, and yet unable to explain our existence. But there was no escaping it back then. No cave deep enough. Just more pain, and hate, and betrayal, and executions."

"So you became a mass-murdering rapist? Makes sense to me," MacLeod remarked acidly. 

"The only way to stop feeling the pain was to embrace it. I stopped trying to avoid it, to push it away and pretend it would stop, and began taking it all in, letting it become not just a part of me, but all of me." The eldest paused to look at the fire, momentarily lost in a memory. "When I met Kronos, I saw a man who was free of the pain and he saw a man who lived because of it."

"He was insane," MacLeod pointed out.

"Yeah, but we both wanted to end the pain. We thought ruling the world was the way to go." Methos shrugged before turning to face his friend. "Part of me wants to say that I was truly stupid back then, that for centuries I actually believed we could do it. But I knew it would never be simple. I ended up staying with Kronos and the others mostly because with them I never felt like I didn't belong, like I wasn't loved, and I did enjoy feeling superior to everyone else."

"If that's true, if times were so great, why'd you leave them?"

"Because one day I realized that I would be Death all my life if something didn't change." Methos made his way back to the alcove and sat down. "All those raids and battles, all the captures and massacres, all the blood and power, and still I was hunted and hated, ignorant of what I was and hurting. After almost a thousand years, even having what the Horsemen offered wasn't enough. I had to leave, had to find something more in life."

"What did you find?" MacLeod asked, calmly absorbing the information.

A slight smile tugged at the corners of the oldest immortal mouth. "I don't know. Nothing I didn't know was possible before or that I thought could last." He paused as he picked up his disguarded pebbles and studied them like runes. "I can't really put it into words. There was a different sort of love, not tremendously different, or different in any way I could explain." Giving up on the stones which refused to grant him answers, Methos turned to the highlander. "All I know for sure is that I left, gave life another shot, and things worked certain ways and in the end, I didn't want or need the power or the blood anymore. I felt a sort of new kind of peace inside. If that makes any sense."

"Not really," MacLeod admitted. "But if you found this 'peace-like' feeling without blood back then, why do you want a nuclear war now?"

"I told you, I don't. I just need this to be over. The war is bringing back memories better-off repressed. Too many friends are being hurt or killed." The owner of the world's oldest heart sniffed before continuing. "Something drastic has to be done and that was easiest." 

"Sometimes I'm glad I can't think like you do." Duncan watched as Methos tossed a stone through the fire and into the spring. "The easiest option for stopping this: nuke 'em."

"I did decide against it." Another pebble soared through the flames and landed in the clear liquid beyond. "Remember, I was going to present a peace treaty instead?"

"I remember. This whole conversation was being saved for tomorrow." Duncan added his own stone to the growing collection at the bottom of the liquid-filled pit.

"Every soul-damning fact." Methos threw his pebble to land in the ripples caused by MacLeod's. 

"So you knew we'd have this entire conversation, huh?" More small waves spread across the liquid surface.

"Not the entire conversation." The next pebble hit the far wall before tumbling into the water. "But yeah."

"Then why were you going to wait?"

"Can't blame a guy for trying to delay the inevitable, can you?" The innocence in the question was too much for Mac. He didn't even try to stop the laugh, simply allowed it to escape his throat and carry all the tension which had seeped into his body when the serious conversation began with it. Pretending to adjust his shirt collar and cuffs, Methos said curtly, "Sir, I will take that to mean a no."

"Now I know you've lost it." The seriousness in Methos' posture stopped the chuckles which racked Duncan's body.

"I knew we would discuss my problem when I told you my plan. It wasn't hard to guess that the reaction wasn't going to be pleasant. I figured one night of pretending things were right in the world wouldn't be too much to ask." Another one of his pebbles arrived at its destination. "Though, being wrong about that last part doesn't mean you're right about the treaty. It will work. I wouldn't be risking my neck otherwise."

"You were willing to start a nuclear war," MacLeod stated bluntly.

"That was different." Methos' face scrunched with disgust and frustration directed at both himself and his friend. "That was a moment of irrational desperation. This—this is a thoroughly thought-out, well crafted plan destined to secure success. The treaty is just current laws adjusted to accommodate immortal needs; longer prison sentences, a different definition of a death sentence, that sort of thing. Immortals will agree with it because it guarantees the rights we were given when society thought we were mortals. And mortals will agree with it because it addresses their fears and concerns. They need to know who's immortal and who isn't. There's a section about universal immortal identification." Cutting off the protest forming on MacLeod's lips, Methos hurriedly explained further. "We naturally know who's mortal so it's only fair that they can tell who's not. I know how hard admitting who and what we are will be, but it is necessary. When Riley came back, I had three identities going. Stephen LaSapien may have had a fixed income, but Will Adams still owns the old Watcher's Headquarters and the building that housed your dojo, and Adam Peterson Jr. has investments in several lucrative businesses. All property owned legally and taxes paid on time. Even so, revealing that Methos has a fair bit of change in the bank, in several banks actually, probably won't go over well. I wouldn't give up that secret if I didn't think it was worth it. And this is worth it. My plan will work."

"If your plan will work, then why did you wait until now to implement it?" MacLeod knew Methos was making sense, and the temptation to believe him was strong. However, Methos was still a man who, hours previously, thought destroying the world was a pretty good idea. "Why not when you first came up with the treaty?"

"Because you only arrived this afternoon." 

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Chapter 8: Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?

"But the stars are burnin' bright like some mystery uncovered 

I'll keep movin' through the dark with you in my heart 

My blood brother." 

--("Blood Brothers" Lyrics and Music By: Bruce Springsteen.)

Mac closed his eyes, hoping he had just heard wrong. This incredibly insane treaty plan did not need him.

"You and Connor are essential to my plan's success." No, Methos was not suggesting he was needed in this suicide attempt. "Methos may be smart and powerful, but being unquestionably honest has rarely made it into the myth. Whereas the honour of the MacLeods can not be challenged." No, he was not going to be a part of this hair-brained scheme. Getting killed and revealing Methos' identity would not help anyone. "Our reputations alone will guarantee that we'll at least survive until the conference starts. No one will try to kill us when we're working for peace, and protests against cruelty to immortals are being held. It would only hurt the people who want us dead and we'll organize it to ensure our safety." No, he was not going to be persuaded by Methos' lame attempts to instill confidence. "Once the talks begin, no one will doubt your honesty and everyone will assume I know what I'm talking about. I'll make sure it's fully secured and broadcast live internationally so no one will try to chop our heads off. They would have to be idiots to try anything. The world will see us, hear us, and we'll convince them that killing us would be foolish." No, he would not be conned by a man who had probably been a salesman a few times over. "Mac, the treaty practically sells itself." No, he was not buying into his friend's optimism. "All we have to do is explain a few points, negotiate a couple of rules. It's simple." No, he would not be tricked into believing it was simple. "Well, not tremendously simple, but this has less risk involved than that affair with the Gina and Robert did." No, he would not give in to guilt. "Connor's already agreed. And he still has trouble seeing me as the manipulator during the Horsemen ordeal." No, he would not cave because of peer pressure. Just because his kinsman jumped off a bridge didn't mean he had to join in. "There's no reason to say no."

"Yes, there is," he replied with a tired voice. Reining in his hope had exhausted MacLeod. It was hard not to forget all the problems the plan presented, and focus solely on what it offered. However, not addressing the problems could easily lead to their deaths.

"Like what?"

"One word," he said. "Cassandra."

"No longer a concern. She's been dead for over two years now. I burnt her body myself." The thought of something burning reminded Methos to tend the now dying fire. He pulled some wood laying at the foot of the alcove and gingerly placed it into the shrinking flames. With his back turned, he failed to notice the icy glare being sent to him.

"How could you?" MacLeod barely managed to ground out.

"Hmm...?" Methos turned to face his companion, finally realizing the nearly unrestrained anger raging in the Scot's eyes.

"Was it easy, Methos? Was killing someone you made love to *really* easier than dying?" Venom dripped from each word.

"I didn't kill her!" Methos' face curled with confusion. "And what I did to her-- we never made love, Mac. She would have killed you for even suggesting such a thing. What are you thinking?"

"That you had someone else kill her and then burnt the body yourself!" He was out of the alcove, towering over Methos.

"I did no such thing," the elder man pronounced each syllable. "I killed the guy who took her head and then burnt their bodies to hide the evidence and give them an acceptable farewell. It was either that or leave them in the cornfield on my way here."

"If you weren't trying to have her killed, why were you even near her?" His tone was calmer, but he was still intentionally invading the other man's personal space. "She would have killed you as soon as look at you." 

"Again, I would have to agree." Accepting his position, a slightly smirking Methos crossed his legs and settled himself on the floor. The heat warming his back would become unbearable eventually, but his tolerance for pain would last until the end of the explanation. He craned his neck to capture the highlander's gaze as he spoke. "When I was running the Watcher's basement in Paris, Cassandra decided to drop by. Liam had told her she was going to see "The Commander." He just forgot to mention that "The Commander" was named Pierson. She had been left to wait in my office alone, free to peruse the papers on my desk and appreciate what I was doing. That's why she didn't kill me as soon as she looked at me. Though I'll admit she probably thought about it."

"How did she end up in a cornfield?" MacLeod's jaw was clenched when he finished, trying to control his rage.

"I'm getting to that." He shifted his position a bit, relieving a portion of his roasting back from the heat. "I explained my plan and then made a deal with her. She would keep my secret and let me continue what I was doing. In return, when peace was established, we would slip away to somewhere private and I would let her take my head. No one would know that Methos was someone the world would hate, and she could have her revenge." Methos tilted his head. "Would you sit down? I can handle a scorched back, but my neck's starting to cramp." MacLeod just raised an eyebrow in response. "Fine, fine, fine." Methos made a face, before cracking his neck from side to side. "Uh, let's see, so the deal was made and we were being civil. We weren't best friends, but after awhile she wasn't staring at me half as coldly as you are now. When the time came for me to relocate here, I was willing to let her run the place in my absence and have Gina set up a new shelter somewhere else. But she insisted that she see exactly what 'Death' was up to, and I couldn't really refuse. Driving with just her as company wasn't so bad. She knew enough not to clench her jaw like you are so that it wouldn't stick that way. And we actually talked. Nothing deep or meaningful, but nothing about how I was the true spawn of Satan and deserved to be burning in Hell for all eternity, which was a nice change. She even laughed at a crack I had made about... I think it was Yuti, the leader of the ITF at the time. Cassandra stopped once she realized what she did, but for a few seconds there, Mac, it was wonderful. It wasn't Death and his former victim in that Range Rover. We were simply Methos and Cassandra." Methos sniffed, and cracked his neck again. "Anyway, half way here, I stopped to take a pee break and she wandered off into this corn field. The next thing I knew, the storm that was supposed to arrive that night had arrived that afternoon, minus the rain. I went to see how well she did; found out she didn't."

Mac's jaw relaxed before its owner joined Methos on the ground. "And so you killed her killer and then gave an impromptu cremation for the bodies."

"Exactly." The oldest man shifted his seat away from the dancing flames, allowing his back to heal. "Kenneth was so surprized when I told him to raise his sword too. Apologized for killing one of my friends and said I couldn't fight him because he followed the rules of the Game."

"Wait." MacLeod raised his hand as his mind absorbed this latest bit of information. "You knew Kenny? A short kid with blonde hair and quite a mouth?"

"Knew him? We were partners!" Methos laughed at his friend's shocked reaction. "We met in-- 1784, I think it was. I caught the munchkin trying to steal money from my hotel room. He was crying, and tried to give me some sob story about losing his teacher and running for his life."

"You didn't believe him." Sometimes Methos' paranoia paid off.

"Had my sword to his throat before he could start begging for his life," the old man laughed again. "Ah, Kenneth shut up at that point and gave me this look. I knew then he was most definitely not a new immortal. We... discussed matters and came to the conclusion that a partnership would be mutually beneficial. I had come to the hotel to relieve a fellow by the name of Jeremiah of his heavy financial burden. Unfortunately, he had said burden locked in a safe in his room. Kenneth agreed to get into the safe while I entertained Jeremiah at the saloon and then we'd split the profit."

"You trusted that he'd come back and not leave with the money?" MacLeod inquired, not even bothering to comment about their robbery; years of knowing Amanda generally stopped him from making such arguments.

"Our partnership wasn't based solely on a common goal, Mac. We hung out together, planning the crime and getting drunk. Apparently, I was the first person who had ever gotten him thoroughly sloshed. When the night came, we were two friends on our way to becoming two wealthy friends." Duncan shook his head when Methos waggled his eyebrows. "The job ran smoothly and every job we did after that. It was a great alliance too. We only split up because he wanted to explore the north and I was looking at the south. That last night I tried to get him a date, but Belinda said she never spent the evening with anyone who looked like her kid, no matter how much I was willing to pay."

"You tried to hire a hooker?"

"Kenneth was older than you at the time, MacLeod. He couldn't 'do' anything really, but I figured a good going-away present could be the opportunity to, at the very least, kiss a woman who didn't treat him like a son. I offered Belinda over a fifty dollars and she still turned me down. So instead, I decided to give him a bigger cut from our last crime which was exactly what he wanted to give me. We ended up with our usual equal amounts of cash and went our separate ways. I think that's what he really wanted as a goodbye, you know. I mean, still being treated as an equal adult partner."

"You mean to tell me that you, the oldest immortal—the oldest person in the world, never once called him a kid?" Duncan, who had been called a kid more than once by Methos, raised his eyebrows. 

"Mac, Kenneth was over five hundred years old. He had lived that long in that body. He most certainly was not a child and when he wasn't treated like one, he didn't act like one. He could hold a mature conversation longer than most of the older-looking people I've met. From the moment I met him 'til the moment I took his head, I treated him as the man he was inside," the lanky man stated flatly. "I suppose that's why he didn't really stop me from killing him. I acted like he was just another adult opponent I was facing."

"But you were still friends when you fought?" MacLeod's skin began to crawl.

"Of course. I didn't hate Kenneth. I could understand why he killed Cassandra and it probably was a fair fight-- well, fair for him. But he couldn't keep taking heads while the war was on. I would have brought him here, but-- you're experience with him is an example of what kind of problems that would have caused. His fear of betrayal that was certain to come and the usual instinct to treat him as a defenseless infant would have resulted in constant fights." Methos heavy sigh didn't alleviate Duncan's unease. There was something eerily familiar about the situation. "I needed this place to be strong. He would have been a weak link."

"But I thought you were friends." Mac's mind was replaying another time, another place, another reality. Methos was killing another friend he considered to be a weak link. " If he had won a fair fight—"

"He said the same thing." Methos was staring into the fire, but his eyes weren't focused on the flames. Oblivious to the memories playing in the Scot's head, the old man was remembering the last moments his former partner was alive.

Meanwhile, Mac could clearly see Richie-- on his knees begging his 'friend' not to kill him. He could hear the young red-head pleading with Methos. His shaky voice trying to remind his teacher of that reality, that they were friends. "What did you say?"

"I told him we were friends." Methos' voice was soft. "Then I said good-bye to my friend." He sniffed before blinking several times, allowing his mind to return to the present. Finally looking at MacLeod, he realized the highlander's glare. "What? I told you. It wasn't anything personal."

"Did you enjoy the reckoning?" The hurt was clear in the voice while Duncan tried to convince himself that this Methos wasn't the Methos from his vision during the O'Roarke incident. But the words were too similar. The reasons too much alike. 

"Mac, will you stop looking at me like that?! For goodness' sakes, it wasn't a joke to me. It was a fair fight and it's not like I took his head with a bloody smile plastered on my face!" The listener finally saw the differences between the incidences and between the two Methos'; the most important differences. Immediately his features softened. "What the hell is wrong with you anyway? I'm supposed to be crazy one down here."

"I just-- I was thinking--" Duncan stammered, deciding now was not a good time to confess he had a strange vision over thirty years ago and that he needed sleep.

"You just thought I'd gone completely nuts and enjoyed killing a friend," Methos grunted.

"No, I just remembered someone who did, someone I had to kill," he half-lied. "You aren't him, though."

"I should hope not." The brunette's mouth twisted as its owner considered the situation. Coming to a conclusion, Methos let the subject drop. "Well, anyway, that's why Cassandra won't be a problem. The only people who know I was Death on horseback are you, me, Joe, Amanda, Amy, and Tim. As long as none of you talk until long after the treaty's signed, everything's safe. See, no reason not to help."

There were still reasons in Mac's opinion though. "As soon as you make your broadcast, people are going to suspect that you're Methos. And the moment they see you, Connor, and I walking to the talks, they're going to definitely know who you are. Someone is likely to kill you then, and the idea that you lied to mortals will make the killing seem justified to people."

"It may not be common knowledge to you, but the rest of the world knows what Adam Pierson is, and what he looks like." Methos tossed another pebble into the rock-enclosed water. "A few days after he went into the hospital, Joe accidentally told the truth about his old poker buddy. He apparently provided the description of a "lanky guy with quite a beak on him" and Artie says my picture made it into the Gazette not two days ago. Plus, Joe also let it slip that Methos was recorded as having blonde hair and thick arms courtesy of centuries of sword fighting. No one will realize we're one and the same until we're at the talks. So, again, no problems." 

"But my past--"

"Has been discussed by every so-called analyst and specialist in the world," Methos supplied. "Practically every single decision you and Connor have ever made has been justified by three or four experts. If anyone brings up your dark quickening or Richie, just let me handle it. I'll drop so many names, heads will spin."

"And if they bring up the game--"

"We'll bring up the fact that headhunters are few and far between nowadays, and that in shelters across the globe thousands of immortals have lived in harmony. We'll point out that the game hasn't been played by the majority of our kind for years. Mortals and immortals will agree with chapter 53 of the treaty which suggests penalties for anyone who decapitates anyone else before the gathering is confirmed."

"That won't put an end to the game, Methos." MacLeod watched as his friend sadly nodded.

"I know. But if there's one good thing to come out of this war, it will be that we know we do not have to kill to survive. I doubt anyone will instantly disregard that truth the moment the treaty is signed. We'll deal with the gathering when it comes, but until then... we will have peace. The talks will help ensure that." The oldest man smiled. "Yet another reason to agree to this."

"But there's still the risk--"

"Risk? What risk?"

"If this doesn't work, we won't lose just one shot at peace. They will kill us, and then who's going to take care of this shelter? Or watch over Joe while he's in prison? Or keep Jellybean and the other kids happy when the rest of world is fighting? I'll agree to go with Connor, but you can't come. No one else knows how to run all those bases at once," MacLeod tried his hand at guilt. "When they take your head, they'll take hope along with it. We can't lose hope and we can't lose you. You're too important."

"So are you. Why do you think I've tried to keep you alive for all these years? To win some stupid unknown prize so you can be alone for eternity and I can be dead?!" Methos threw another stone into the waiting water. "You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, as you have been all your life. You are the greatest link between immortals and mortals; have been since you became immortal. I've known this day was bound to arrive sooner or later; when our secret would come out. It was only a matter of time, and I'm not about to abandon our best chance for peace, now that it's here, because my life's in danger. I've led you this far, I'll not chicken-out now." 

"We'll find another way or try when there are more mortals siding with immortals."

"I already explained that no intelligent person would dare kill us until after the conference and we'll have the treaty signed before then."

"You don't know that for sure."

"But I do know that I have to do something," Methos persisted. "I think we can both agree that I'm going crazy, MacLeod. I can't stand hiding, waiting for someone to kill me, watching as yet another friend gets closer to death. I need to be able to lay my friends to rest. I need to walk outside without thinking about what I can lose. I need to give Jellybean and the others that chance too." His voice shook with emotion. "You want to talk about risk? How about the risk that if I don't do this now, when people are beginning to question what side they're on, I'm not going to be sane enough to help anyone later?" He took a deep breath, burying his feelings. "Mac, I have instructions already typed up, explaining exactly what to do and what funds to use. If this fails and I die, they will be able to carry on and it will be a blessing. I can survive many things; the knowledge that I am slowly reliving my past isn't one of them. I can't take much more." He paused again, organizing his thoughts and emotions. "As long as I'm decapitated first, you and Connor should be able to escape. My quickening ought to be large enough to ensure that. I realize this is a lot to ask, but I need this war to be over before I crack."

"So, you've spent hours, days, possibly weeks even constructing this treaty, and are willing to risk your life presenting it *just* to keep your sanity in tact?" MacLeod's resolve had nearly been worn away by the speech, but he needed to make sure there wasn't an ulterior motive for his friend's plot.

"Yes, I am doing something just to help myself. I am unbelievably selfish," Methos huffed. "I thought you already knew that."

"Unbelievable is right. I'm beginning to think you don't have a real selfish bone in your body," Mac countered.

"Mac, you're mistaking me for someone else." He pursed his lips. "I'm not the Methos who's selfless, noble, all-knowing, been everywhere and done everything. I'm just your average guy who doesn't know everything, still hasn't seen or done all this world has to offer, and is, quite frankly, thinking about his own needs and wants ninety-nine percent of the time. A shock, I know."

"You have a problem admitting how good you are, you know that?" MacLeod beamed, finally feeling like he was talking to his old friend again. Methos had always allowed compliments and insults alike to roll off him; rarely letting anything to perceivably seep past his skin. "But I suppose we can work on that after we come back from the talks."

"You can certainly try." Methos' grin stretched ear to ear. "Thank-you."

"Well, according to your logic, I'm doing this to repay my debt to you," the black-haired man laughed.

"Your *perceived* debt to me. One doesn't actually exist." The next pebble skipped over the water twice.

"I don't know how you do it," MacLeod admitted, wondering how someone so old could still be unaware of his goodness.

"Really? It's all in the wrist." To demonstrate, Methos skipped the next stone. "See?"

"Yeah," Duncan said, deciding not to engage his friend in another serious conversation tonight. Methos seemed to have lost his desire to discuss matters. Understandable since Methos had given more of himself and his past in the past hour than he had in the nearly forty years prior. Mac figured it would be cruel to try for more information, especially when they didn't have anything to dull the edge of truth. "Do you happen to have any beer stashed around here? To celebrate?"

"Nope, no alcohol anywhere in the Shelter. But if I've gotten used to it, I'm sure you will too." Methos glanced at his watch. "Look, it's getting late. You should go back to your room. Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

MacLeod nodded, standing up. "You should take your own advice."

"I'll go soon enough."

"Come on, I'm curious to see what Commander quarters are like."

"You really think I sleep in *that* room?" The grin reverted to its usual amused size. "My real room is hidden past the generators. You just turn left at the first fork in the path. It isn't incredibly cozy, but it is secure. Every volume of my journal is safe there." 

"You still write everyday?" the more muscular of the pair asked, approaching the cavern's entrance.

"I've never written everyday, Mac," Methos said, standing up to see his friend out. "But it is important to me to keep it as updated as possible."

MacLeod couldn't help be feel the situation wasn't fair for anyone. Should they fail in their mission for peace, Methos would have been wasting his time by updating his beloved journal. His most prized possession could be lost for years, quite possibly forever; the opportunity to truly know the legendary Methos and history along with it. If the Navejo were correct that the spirit did live as long as someone alive remembered it, then everyone Methos had ever met and thought to write about would die the day he did. Yet, MacLeod refused to voice that depressing knowledge, refused to ask Methos what the future of their documented history was. Instead he told himself that they'd return intact, waved good-bye to his friend before traveling back down the tunnel, remembering to stay to the left, while Methos returned to sitting in the alcove, calmly tossing pebbles over the flames and into the spring.


	3. Chapters 9 to 11

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Chapter Nine: The Long Journey to Freedom.

"Better stand tall when they're calling you out

Don't bend, don't break, baby, don't back down

It's my life

And it's now or never

'Cause I ain't gonna live forever

I just want to live while I'm alive (it's my life)"

--("It's My Life" Performed By: Bon Jovi)

It has often been said that a watched pot never boils. However, in the Methos' case, the whole world was bubbling and boiling before he had even finished pouring out the news through the satellites. The forty-eight page treaty Adam Pierson presented the next afternoon was instantly the centre of everyone's attention. A copy had been sent to radio and television stations, random fax machines and any computer connected to the Internet at the time of the transmission. The media stories which ran after the announcement, reported massive delays around the globe as people read over the proposed new laws. Lawyers and judges were being bombarded with questions about the possible consequences. Politicians were working around the clock to determine the seriousness and effectiveness of the treaty. Regular citizens were analyzing their own copies, looking for exactly what Methos was suggesting, or searching for the real purpose of the peace talks, depending on one's opinion of immortals. The discussions were quick, though. Adam had included a deadline for a reply. If the United Nations did not agree or disagree to the proposal in forty-eight hours, the chance for peace had passed. They responded in less than thirty-three.

So it was agreed that in five days time the United Nations would meet in its Paris office and negotiate the treaty with Methos and three other immortals of his choosing. The conference would begin at eleven in the morning and continue until an agreement had been reached. The immortals would provide their own transportation to the building (hence the five day delay), but security there was guaranteed to be intense. The deal was controversial, but the amended and new laws were reasonable and, as Methos had said, immortals and mortals generally agreed with them. 

Of course, the doubts in the Shelter had not been eased. They merely changed focus. After the UN had presented their deal and Methos, through Sweet Pea, had agreed, the list of Methos' aids had been sent to the underground base. Its inhabitants believed in the treaty's potential. They believed that the chosen few should leave on the last day before the talks were to be held so that they arrived on time, but not dangerously early. The residents of the Shelter believed that Methos could achieve peace. They even believed that the two Highland warriors would help accomplish the oldest immortal's goal. However, they sincerely doubted the helpfulness of the skinny guy who never took a sparing match seriously, played games with and told bedtime stories to the kids, and was probably an emotional time-bomb by now. They had faith that Sweet Pea could make schedules and handle paperwork, but going to an major peace conference on which all their futures might very well depend, that seemed to be pushing it. 

At first, the doubts were voiced with infrequent whispers when Sweet Pea was in his office. Low questions about their Commander's usefulness floating on air. Then, the people realized their friend was either not hearing their ponderings or ignoring them completely. Their concerns were soon expressed at every meal. But gentle mutterings seemed ineffective as well. So, on the third day, what began as whispers became clear questions asked directly to Sweet Pea. His response, "It wasn't my decision to bring me along. That honour belongs to Methos", didn't help matters. By the final supper before Methos' assistants left, the majority of the Shelter was infuriated by his attitude, and down right concerned about how badly he would screw up at the talks. 

The confrontation finally occurred when Sweet Pea was about to retreat to his office, and Jimbulaya stepped in his way. "'Fraid, I can't let you go yet."

"What?" Annoyance clearly painted on the pale man's face. "I've got schedules to finalize. We can talk later."

"Sorry," the larger man said. Duncan watched as the african-american crossed his arms over his wide chest. "You've got to spar with me first."

"Let him pass, Jimbulaya," Connor cautioned from his table. "He has work to do and nothing to prove."

"On the contrary, Sweet Pea has a lot to prove." Salami, a slim man with a haunting elf-like face, rose from his chair. "Our best chance for peace relies on his ability to help Methos. Now, the MacLeods can provide unrefuted honesty and protection. Methos knows exactly what he's doing. The only one who doesn't have a purpose is Sweet. I think he should prove he can beat at least one person if the need should arise."

"Sweet Pea has a purpose." Pear stood up. "He's great with people and he's smart. He's a great addition to the team."

"Pear, that isn't his role," corrected a young woman with long curly blonde hair. Her French accent didn't suit her attire; a plaid shirt, and jeans. Not bothering to stand, Cherry continued, "We all know that everyone going is smart and good with strangers. But Chicken and Haggis bring the trust, Methos is there for the wisdom, and Sweet Pea is going because of his innocent looks."

"That isn't true," the young man protested. "If Methos was looking for innocence, he would have picked me or Beef Jerkie over there."

"Will you all please stop analyzing why I'm going and just accept it?" the subject of the discussion asked, before turning back to the figure still blocking his way. "I'm not fighting you."

"Then fight me," Salami suggested. "Or someone who's easy-- Artie--"

"Hey!" Artie shouted. "I've beaten Sweet Pea before. He should fight Pear."

"I'm not fighting anyone. Now, Jim, move."

"No," came the solid response.

"Adam, if you just--" 

"No, I'm not going to!" Methos quickly cut off MacLeod's suggestion, knowing it was probably that he should tell the others the truth. They had discussed it before, and the older man had decided that his head might be safer if Methos' true identity couldn't leak to any immortals who couldn't resist the temptation to take his quickening.

"Not going to what?" Artie asked from his seat.

"He's not going to spar, that's what," Salami supplied. "He's gonna ruin everything."

"Yo, Elf man, shut up." Liver tugged at the other man's sleeve, urging him to sit down. "Negative thinking isn't going to help right now."

"Neither is letting him go when Beef Jerkie could easily replace him," countered another woman in the far corner of the mess hall. Sugar's long flower dress swayed as she stood up. "Methos doesn't know that BJ is here or how great a fighter he is. His only real contact here has been Sweet Pea so he probably assumed he would be useful. We could send BJ in Sweet's place and everything would work out."

"Everything wouldn't work out," argued Pear. "Sweet Pea is a great choice, or have you all forgotten what he's done around here?"

"We've forgotten nothing," Cherry asserted. "I remember all the schedules and reports he's organized, but I also remember all the bouts he's lost. Let's face facts. He has brains, but no brawn."

"He probably has plenty of brawn... hidden somewhere under his shirts," the youth stammered.

"No man avoids changing infront of others because he's a muscle house, Pear," Sugar flatly stated. "I think we know he's done it because he's shy."

"A shy man doesn't play 'Hokey-Pokey' with over twenty people watching," Salami countered. "He hides his chest because of a scar he got before he became immortal."

"That's not it at all. Sweet Pea has a tattoo he likes to hide," contended Pear.

"This is all immaterial." Cherry finally stood up. "We should be talking about how we can send BJ instead of Sweet Pea to the conference."

"We are not sending Beef Jerkie in my place," Methos vehemently replied. "We are going to let me go because Methos, for whatever important reason he had, asked for me. Now get out of my way, Jim."

"No can do until you agree to spar with me." The bulky man shook his head and swayed from side to side as the leaner man attempted to slip past him.

"I will do no such thing," Methos stated, growing angrier by the second. He could hear the arguments intensifying behind him. Duncan was trying

to restore order verbally while Connor was physically holding Artie down, trying to convince him that starting a brawl would not help Sweet Pea's case. Salami and Pear were yelling at one another as others moved away from their table, expecting the tossing of insults to soon turn into the flying of fists. Cherry, Beef Jerkie, and Sugar were discussing the ways they could sneak the blonde youth into the conference without offending Methos. Liver was loudly arguing with a curly-haired man who continued to point from Sweet Pea to BJ. Finally, sensing the tension about to reach its climax, Methos turned around to face the crowd. "What the Hell do you think you are all doing?!" Mouths stopped moving and all heads immediately turned to the source of the shout. His voice dropped in volume. "You seriously think this is helping?! You are fighting over a decision that is final. Methos has his reasons and if you really did trust him, you'd accept that. Now you are all going to stop this pointless arguing because I am not changing my mind. I am going to go to that peace conference, not BJ or Pear or anyone else in my place. And I am going to do whatever I have to, whether that be looking innocent, acting smart, or defending myself as best I can. And you will just have to deal with it." His cold stared returned to Jimbulaya. "And you will have to find yourself someone else to spar with. I am going to my office so get out of my way, right now!"

The bigger man moved his face until it was just centimeters from Methos', and in a low, firm voice said, "If anyone at those talks treats you like we just did, you had better have that attitude and conviction." Suddenly straightening up, Jimbulaya smiled. "I think we just found out what Methos already knew; Sweet's got a back bone like the Eiffel Tower. And if I may so, told ya."

Methos turned to see several sheepish grins, and many heads nodding in agreement. The others in the mess hall seemed to relax. MacLeod had the

sneaky suspicion that Jimbulaya had given the old man a test, and he had passed.

"Does that mean we can bring out the cake?" inquired Jellybean, already sliding out of her seat. 

"Cake?" Methos watched as the little girl, accompanied by Bean and Peanut, went into the kitchen and retrieved a small round cake covered in white frosting. A single lit pink candle stood in the middle of the dessert. He was still speechless when the children set it on his usual table and Mushroom gently pushed him to sit down.

"They wanted to give you a goodluck present before you left; something that would help you," Jimbulaya explained while the silent man sat down and was surrounded by his little friends. "On his last trip, Artie had grabbed some mix and icing for Jellybean's birthday. She didn't mind using it for you."

"Aren'tcha gonna blow it out?" asked Mushroom, watching wax slide down the candle until it solidified on the icing.

"He's gotta make a wish first, silly," Peanut chided the boy with chestnut hair. "Remember, one person makes a wish, blows out the candle, and then whatever he wished for comes true."

"Is that what they're teaching you these days?" Seeing a couple of heads nod in his peripheral vision, Methos smiled. His voice was gentle and serious. "Well, let me set you straight then. There is a rule that if there's only one candle to blow out, more than one person can blow it out. The only catch is that everyone must be making the same wish, but we can't tell each other what we're wishing for. Those combined wishes on that one candle creates sort of a, uh, super wish. It's more likely to come true, no matter how impossible it is."

"Well, I think we're all hoping for the same thing," Artie piped up. 

Suddenly, Methos was aware of the crowd which had formed around his table. "Well then, on the count of three, we all blow together. Ready?" Several 'ready's were spoken from various people standing around him. "One. Two. Three!" The mixed breathes of the group quickly extinguished the flame and a round of applause followed its end. 

The rest of the evening was an unstructured Farewell Party which caused an equal share of laughter and tears. Kids laughed as Sweet Pea told them one last story. Adults cried as Sweet "One Day I'll Learn How To Bluff" Pea played poker and finally won-- nearly every hand. Friends cheered while playing a game of Limbo. Jellybean sniffled as she made Duncan promise to bring her Sweet Pea home unharmed. The music was upbeat, forcing the mood to be light when the reality of what awaited three friends was remembered. And while the sense of joy still waiffed in the air and filled the rock-encased Shelter, Duncan and Connor ushered Methos to his room to get much needed rest.

Their alarm clocks sang at seven and they were on the road by eight. Connor was the Range Rover's driver, Methos was the navigator, and Duncan was, as the oldest man said, "the guy who sits in the back and occasionally asks if we're there yet." They left armed with their swords, whole trench coats, clean suits the most sly immortal of the trio had procured over the decades ("It's not that big of a deal, Mac. I've owned suits before, you two are about the same size, and you didn't clean out your closet when you sold the dojo."), and Methos' briefcase containing, among other things, the original treaty. For over an hour, the three men enjoyed the scenery as the sun rose, gently kissing the world as it did so. When the sights no longer soothed his excited soul, Connor went to turn on the radio.

Methos grabbed his hand before it touched the button. "Oh, no you don't."

"What? I was just going to listen to some music."

"I've heard what you two listen to, and I'll not have opera playing all the way to Paris."

"Opera is great music," Connor declared. "If you had any sense, you'd realize that."

"Not liking opera means that one has sense." 

"At least our stations play more music than commercials, Methos." Duncan leaned over from the backseat. "And I want to listen to something relaxing, not your kind of music."

"You want relaxing? Open the briefcase beside you, there are some discs full of soothing music and they're all commercial-free." 

Being more curious than obedient, MacLeod grabbed the case and looked inside. True to his word, there were some discs, all by soft-rock artists. What captured the Scot's attention, however, was something else entirely. "You're bringing your baseball?"

"Of course, it could be a goodluck charm."

"What baseball?" Connor inquired.

"The baseball he caught with his face."

"You consider that ball goodluck and you say I don't have sense," snickered Connor, before momentarily looking over his shoulder at Duncan. "How'd you manage to drag him to a game anyway?"

"I didn't have to," his cousin explained. "Joe taught him baseball in '96, and ever since whenever those two have been in the same city, they watched whatever game was on. In 2023, Methos treated Joe and I to game three of the World Series, Seattle Marlins versus Toronto Blue Jays. It was great up until a foul ball broke his face."

"It hit the second level and then hit me," Methos clarified. "It wasn't a line drive caught on the Jumbotron."

"But it broke your face?" The elder highlander asked, trying to understand why anyone would keep a souvenir of that experience.

"Shattered his face is more like it." MacLeod inspected the ball, noting that, indeed, the bloodstains were still present. "You'd think it would have been lucky that he heals fast. But, thanks to Tanya, he had to cover his face with his hands all the way to the infirmary, and then had to keep breaking his nose until the doctor set it."

"Tanya?"

"This short, peroxide-brunette who decided to be charitable and watch out for the guy with the "cute British accent" for the entire game." Mac could still hear her explaining how a foul ball could be counted as a strike while Methos patiently tried to tell her that, though it was his first time *going to* a professional baseball game, he knew how the game was played. "When Casanova here was hit, she insisted that she accompanied us. The moment we set foot in the sickbay, she told the nurse Methos' nose was definitely broken and, since we didn't have time to clean up any of the blood or check that it was straight, he had to play along. Joe and I had to keep distracting the attending nurse and Tanya so he could keep breaking his nose."

"Nine agonizing times," Methos sadly added. "I'd never been so happy to see a doctor in my life."

"The rest of the game, he had to wear a nose-brace, and Tanya kept checking to make sure he was still feeling fine and didn't need her to drive him to "the hospital or something." The only good thing she did was grab this ball and give it to us instead of keeping it for herself."

"I don't see how that ball could possibly be a goodluck charm if it did that much damage," Connor remarked, turning the automobile down a paved road. Thirty minutes and they'd arrive.

"The Marlins won that game and went on to win the World Series!" exclaimed Methos. "This is a souvenir of the game their luck changed for the better, and we did have a great time, despite my injuries. I know it isn't a charm, really. But this morning Jellybean wanted to know what I was bringing for goodluck, and since I didn't want her scouring the entire Shelter looking for rabbit's feet or four-leaf clovers, I grabbed the ball."

"The gift that keeps on giving," chuckled Connor, earning him a withering glare from Methos, "like music discs."

Taking the hint, MacLeod dropped the ball back in the briefcase, and handed a disc to his cousin. "I've heard of this band before. I think they're supposed to be good."

The sandy haired man examined the disc before sliding it into the slim slot. The music was slightly faster than he'd been hoping for, and the lyrics were in spanish which slowed his understanding, but song's mood was upbeat and uplifting. He had to admit, it was just what he needed. His thoughts were becoming doubts the closer they came to Paris. His and everyone else's in the minivan. But the music wiped those concepts from their minds, replacing them with words of victory and freedom, and hope. The rest of the drive was spent quietly allowing the tune to continue doing just that. They could face their fears in the French capital. But in the safety of their Range Rover, the trio would listen to the instruments and soft voice, convincing themselves that everything would work out smoothly. 

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Chapter Ten: "...life is about change, learning to accept who you are, good or bad." -Duncan MacLeod, "Not to Be."

"Please heed the call 

Don't stand in the doorway 

Don't block up the hall 

For he that gets hurt 

Will be he who has stalled 

There's a battle outside 

And it is ragin'. 

It'll soon shake your windows 

And rattle your walls 

For the times they are a-changin'. 

--("The Times They Are A-Changin'." Lyrics: Bob Dylan)

The United Nations Headquarters, recently relocated in the Eiffel Tower's hometown, was a monstrous building. It was new. It had hundreds of sparkling clean windows. It had beautifully sculpted gargoyles adorning its many corners. It had a huge lobby with red carpeting. It had twenty stairs leading to its front doors. It had potted plants lining its stairs and two little trees standing at attention at its double glass doors. It had well over fifty journalists and camera operators crowding its stairs. It had several more officers guarding its entrance, and there were guardrails too. Its closest neighbours were two smaller stores selling maps and souvenirs situated on either side of it across two different streets. It was welcoming leaders from around the world inside. Its conference room was to become a battlefield in fifteen minutes. The impressive tower was a testament of all that the world hoped to achieve; a mixture of the old and new styles, the private discussions and public announcements. It was smooth and cool, despite the hot sun shining on it, worshipping it. It was a spectacle to behold. It was a structure that demanded respect and awe. It was two blocks away from where three immortals, determined to end a war, stood staring at it from their parked SUV.

"Ready?" Methos picked up his briefcase from its spot on the sidewalk. The MacLeods exchanged glances, visually conveying their uncertainty and worries regarding the plan, before nodding. "Good."

"I'll take point," Connor commanded as they approached the congregation of people blocking their way to the front doors. "Duncan, you take rear, and Sweet Pea-- don't wander away."

Giving little more than a mildly irritated face, Methos obeyed as they pushed, excused, and 'no comment'-ed through the crowd. Microphones were thrust in their faces. Flashes nearly blinded them. One side of the mass would shove them one way, only to have the other surge in the opposite direction. It was like three salmon fighting their way upstream with shouting waves. Fortunately, Connor decided half way through that he preferred being a bull to a salmon. Grunting as he went, the elder MacLeod shoved journalists and equipment out of his way. Eventually the mob backed away, rather than face the charging immortal head on.

"Glad to see you made it," announced a smirking officer in the lobby. His statement would have sounded more sincere if he wasn't chomping on gum, and didn't find their trouble so amusing. "Where are the others?"

"As previously explained, they're arriving later," Methos answered tartly, quickly checking his coat and briefcase to see if anything was missing. Thankfully, everything seemed intact. Everything, but Connor's calm.

"This place is supposed to be secure," he raged. "We could have been shot or stabbed out there."

"It's not like you would've been hurt," the man shrugged. 

"We could have been," Duncan interjected. "We were guaranteed a secure and safe meeting."

"And you've got one," the guard stated smugly. "So what if you had to talk to the media first? They aren't out for blood... unlike some things."

Connor's lunge was stopped by Duncan grabbing his arm and Methos softly saying his name. His respect for authority figures-- the police specifically-- was infamous since he really didn't have any. And though, in his opinion, the jerk deserved a good punch right in the chops, the shortest of the group backed off. They couldn't have him fighting with an officer of the law when they were about to engage in peace talks. After taking a few cleansing breathes, he shrugged away the last of his anger, and stubbornly refused to look back at the guard, certain his rage would return if he did so. "Let's go."

Cautiously, they followed the officer, Luc, to the security centre. He explained how to use the translators while Methos' case was x-rayed, their coats were searched, and their bodies were scanned for other hidden weapons. The only items which required explanation were Methos' baseball and their swords. Once the guards were satisfied that the ball didn't contain a miniature bomb or bugging device, and the swords were simply there as signs of peace, the trio was escorted to a large room, closely resembling an auditorium. 

Their seats, they were told, were located in the centre of bottom level. They were to be the main attraction in this theatre. Camera operators stood at the three exits. The others' seats formed an inclined semi-circle stretching back ten rows, with aisles separating sections after every fifteen seats. Infront of each row was a long table, with a microphone and earphones for translations, and a nameplate attached before each chair. The chairs were comfy, and the tables were polished. All except the ones in the centre of the bottom level. 

"At least they didn't give us cardboard boxes," quipped Methos, walking down the ramp to put his briefcase on the steel table. While they descended, he surveyed the room. Presidents, Prime Ministers, and their assorted assistants were still filing in, finding their seats, and conversing with others, stringently avoiding eye contact with the immortals. "Friendly bunch."

"At least we have the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom on our side," Connor assured them. "Alistair promised me that the other night."

"That's a relief. Any ideas about what they're saying?" Duncan inquired, realizing that his italian was too rusty to understand the fast-paced discussion occurring to his right.

"I think the guy in the grey suit is asking when Methos is supposed to arrive." Connor tried to listen to the next conversation they passed by, but he had never learnt Finnish. The next group was speaking what sounded like Russian, but too quietly for him to be certain. Finally they reached the last floor and he could gaze at the mortals without appearing nosy, just harmlessly curious.

Duncan joined him shortly before placing his sword on the cold black table, next to Methos'. Taking one last look around, Connor turned to lay his sword with the others, mindful not to hit the standing microphones or headsets. He could hear a set of voices behind him grow louder, but he hadn't spoken Swahili in decades and had a feeling that they weren't really discussing a new dough. "Duncan, do you know what they're saying?"

"Not a clue, though I'm sure it's about us." The junior MacLeod frowned as he noticed some nicks in his katana's blade. He hadn't had the opportunity to polish it since Riley had decided to share his secret with the world. He couldn't help but feel his treasured sword deserved better than that treatment. "We should find out soon. The conference starts in two minutes."

"They're wondering why two Scottish warriors are carrying around Japanese swords," explained Methos as he removed the treaty, scrap paper, and pens from his briefcase. "The group before that, to our left and a few rows up, was saying that I look a lot thinner and whiter in person. Which is probably true since television adds, what, ten pounds, is it?" He looked up as the Highland cousins rounded the table to pretend to watch him work while observing their audience. "And the people before them were discussing Methos' absence, though they would only refer to him as the Ancient One."

"I think Sweet Pea suits you better." Duncan smiled at the man to his left while the representatives slowly took their seats.

"And Chicken suits you too," retorted Methos, patting his friend's shoulder. A loud bell sounded to signal the beginning of the conference. 

"We said we'd speak mostly English, right?" Connor asked while he and the others slipped the earphones over their heads.

"Yep." The eldest of their kind gestured for them to take their seats. "Time to look sharp, act smart, and hope we have a few open minds in the room. I believe you have the floor, Mac."

Swallowing his fear, Duncan switched on their microphones and began the opening speech he'd repeated in his mind over and over again all the way to Paris. "Good morning and thank-you for coming. The swords you see displayed on this table have been with us for centuries. They were often considered extensions of ourselves when we were forced to defend ourselves or protect others. But today we lay them bare before you as a sign that we truly desire a future without bloodshed, without violence, without secrets. We, like you, are not models of our kind. We are here to present the ideals and wishes of the majority of immortals. Those are what may be discussed. Our pasts, like your own, are not on trial. Today, we will find a way to live in harmony through calm and rational discussion. I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, son of Mary and the past clan Chieftain Ian MacLeod. I am four hundred and forty-four years old, and I consider it an honour and a privilege to be a part of this." 

"I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, son of Rachel and Sean MacLeod. I am five hundred and eighteen years old, and I am here to--"

"Where is Methos?" interrupted a chubby man seated in the middle of the seventh row. His Russian accent was thick, but the aggravation was clearly present in his tone. "The pale skeleton down there said he'd come."

"And he has," Methos informed him, trying unsuccessfully to hide his usual amused grin. "I'm Methos."

The man, President Mikel Yessier according to his nameplate, slammed his fist on the table. "You are Adam Pierson! You're friend Joe has surrendered that information. How dare you insult me, insult all of us, with this lie! You beg for peace and then you mock us?! You--" Adam Pierson's raised hand halted his rant.

"Let me try that again with a straight face," the lean man said while lowering his hand. "I am Methos." The room was instantly quiet. Everyone just gawked at the man who, seconds earlier, was a shy, poker-playing, young immortal. In the time it took to honestly introduce himself again, the oldest man had somehow transformed before the gathered assembly. His shoulders seemed broader. His posture was straighter. The eyes that previously held awe and self-doubt, now contained self-confidence and wisdom. The face which had seemed so innocent and gentle was suddenly strong and experienced. His amused voice was unwavering and powerful. The immortal who was undoubtedly Adam Pierson seconds ago was now undoubtedly Thee Methos. As if the metamorphosis wasn't enough, he continued to introduce himself in every language still in use, including sign language and pig latin. "For the talks, I will try to continue speaking English just to make it easier on the translators."

"You start this peace conference with a lie?" Mikel roared, his face literally red with rage.

"No, we start with a truth," responded Methos, "An important truth I have hidden for centuries. I have done this because honesty is imperative to the success of these talks. This conference was set up based on the honest desire for an end to this war. It began with honest admissions and it will succeed because of consistent honesty. I don't want to lie to any of you and have no intention of doing so. I, also, don't think that you will all believe my words without doubt."

"We aren't stupid enough to believe something that foolish," contributed Connor. "But we aren't going to believe everything any of you say either. We all have doubts. But I have been taught that if we try to listen for the reasons behind the words, we can hear the truths."

"This treaty was written by Methos, following the truths you have recognized in various countries. It doesn't lie about what immortals are capable of doing, or what we are entitled to." MacLeod tapped the contract in front of him. "These suggested laws are honest and accurate. Don't dwell on the fact that he didn't say he was Methos when he first offered the treaty. Unlike you and I, he isn't used to introducing himself by his real name. For thousands of years, he hasn't had the luxury to safely to do so."

"Thank-you, Mac," Methos said. "Look, if going by alias after alias has taught me anything, it's that the name isn't important. I was Methos when I said I was Adam Pierson, and I am still me. That is a fact. My being here to achieve long-lasting peace, by doing and giving what I have to, is another fact. Duncan and Connor still holding on to their roots as part of the Clan MacLeod is another fact. A fact is that we have all risked something to be here, and that we believe in this treaty enough that we were willing to come here. We are here to deal with facts."

"Facts?" a woman in the ninth row in the left section of the theatre asked. "And what *fact* do you wish to discuss?"

"The fact that immortals need mortals." The MacLeods both hid smiles, realizing how their friend had gracefully steered the discussion away from himself. "You see, another fact is that a gifted immortal is extremely rare. I have heard of very few, met even less. The poetry, art, technology, and other wonders of this world which we enjoy are created primarily by mortals. Monet was no more immortal than DaVinci or Gates, or Hawknings or Poe."

"We have been able to live our lives because mortals have made it enjoyable, tolerable," Connor injected, happy that no politician had decided to interrupt and return the subject to Methos. "You let us live. Not just those like Van Gogh or Shakespeare, but people like Joe Dawson, and Shirley Weatherbot, and Heather."

"I have learnt hundreds of lessons from mortals," Duncan spoke up. "My katana was a gift from the man who taught me about other forms of honour, responsibility, and family. I have questioned my beliefs and changed my opinions as mortals have shown me different views about friendship and forgiveness. My parents were mortals and I would not be Duncan MacLeod if it were not for their guidance and love."

"So you need us," a tiny Irish man in the third row paraphrased with disdain. "Am I to assume that we supposedly need you as well? Despite all we apparently give you, you give us something in return?"

Feeling that this was where his ancient friend had hoped to go with the discussion, Duncan smiled. "Exactly. Gifted immortals, as Methos has admitted, are rarities, but they do use their talents throughout their lives. Claudia Jardine and Lord Byron are perfect examples." He barely shared a glance with Methos, but knew what the statement had done to their friendship. Another uncrossed bridge had been mended. "Claudia has given this world beautiful music under several different aliases for decades. Byron created wonderful poetry and songs for centuries. And though they are both deceased, other immortals continue to grace us with their genius."

"Other immortals have even helped mortal prodigies." The elder MacLeod knew his kinsman and himself were on a roll. "Shakespeare, Van Gogh, even Michelangelo have been tutored by immortals. Duncan and I have sponsored other mortals we knew could be great if they just had the chance."

"And we aren't the only ones. Immortals may have amassed great fortunes over the centuries, but the majority of us use our wealth to assist others in need," his cousin pointed out. "If not gifts of money, then we have given mortals shelter, food, or someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. Methos has been a doctor several times, tending to the rich and the poor; the masters and the slaves. Countless other immortals have done the same or entered into similar fields. Some have become surgeons, psychiatrists, priests, monks who never raised a sword in millennia. The sole mission in their lives has become to aide those who need it, regardless of who it is."

"Immortals have even lost their lives fighting in wars to protect mortals, to save their freedom from dictators such as Napoleon and Hitler." Connor's pride raised his voice. They really had helped the world. "If we weren't soldiers, then immortals were the medics treating the injured. Throughout history, we have been giving back to mortal society what it has given us."

"Those aren't immortal gifts," argued the Irish Prime Minister, his voice louder than his body would suggest possible.

"Agreed," Methos muttered immediately. 

Clive Barley waved his finger at the three men on the bottom level. "Any mortal has done those same things, also throughout history. What do you do that is so special we can't, hmm?"

Methos' eyes sparkled as he waited, allowing the anxiety and excitement to build in the spacious room. "Perhaps nothing at all. Beyond the physical, I would say we are rather the same beings. We share the same feelings, desires, and needs. We work the same as you. We change with age, as you do. However, since our age can be so much greater than your own, we have the opportunity to change much more, to see the world better. That doesn't make us special since mortals have often given us as completely different perceptions as other immortals have. All in all, as mortals have offered us, we have returned the favour with zest. We can give all which mortals can, for longer. Again, only the physical seems to separate me from you. If this treaty is signed, if we work together, perhaps we will discover what allows immortals to live for so long and how we can use that to help mortals. I have tried to figure this out alone before and failed. We--"

"Fascinating," huffed Mikel. "Your great talent isn't so great, Methos. I want to know why I should bother to negotiate to this wondrous treaty of yours. I am here because I wanted to meet the legendary immortal. And I have yet to be impressed. You talk much, but about nothing important to me. And your comrades have yet to support your little speech. Tell me, what does your treaty offer me that I want?"

"Besides peace?" MacLeod could only stare at the man, as dozens of other words with meanings synonymous with peace swirled in his mind. What else could the man want?

"The opportunity to possibly prolong lives, eradicate diseases," offered Connor, suffering a similar problem as his clansman. "A chance for new recipes for alcoholic beverages?" That earned him a glare from Mac. "I don't know what you want, but this treaty-- it could stop the fighting, stop the fear."

"Don't you want to change what's going on?" Duncan hadn't missed Methos' sudden silence. The old man was letting him lead again, as if he'd really been leading at all today. "This whole conference wasn't just to see who the oldest immortal is. And I can't believe that that's all it is for you. This is a chance to end the pain, to find a harmony we've secretly had for centuries and millennia, to knowingly grow together. You have to be here for that."

"Do I now?" sneered the Russian President. "And what happens if I'm not?"

"The same thing that's happened to every culture that refused to embrace change and adapt for a better future," Connor volunteered. "If you don't learn how to change with the rest of the world, you don't survive."

"Is that a threat?!" shouted Mikel, rising out of his chair and leaning over the table.

"Not in the least so sit down," commanded Methos. The other delegates' eyes seconded the order and the bulky male hesitantly lowered himself to his cushy seat and proceeded to sulk in silence. "If you did not change, you'd still be in diapers and there wouldn't be a future for mortals or, quite possibly, immortals either."

Catching the look Methos directed at him, Duncan quickly continued what his cousin's thought had apparently begun. "It is a fact of life that in order to survive we must change. That's what life is about, change. As I have witnessed, an immortal who doesn't change with the times either dies or is killed because he tries to bring back the past."

"It is a sad fact," interjected Methos, "But true nonetheless. Change is a necessity."

"This treaty provides us with a wonderful opportunity to change, to grow and become better than we were," Connor added. 

"Exactly," agreed the oldest immortal. "This is our chance to change our lives for the better, to do it together."

"Even if you only came here to see Methos, stay because you want to grow with us. Don't deny your people the chance to evolve," pleaded MacLeod, finally feeling steel confidence gripping his heart. The looks the representatives were giving him, and the pride and strength echoing in his friends' voices, practically screamed eminent success. "Please, let us discuss the treaty, negotiate the laws so that it lasts, and finally be able to grow side by side without secrets. Is there really anyone who doesn't want to evolve into a world like that?"

He stood, frozen in place, as mumbled conversations were shared by the mortal members in the room. Only his eyes seemed capable of movement, and they caught sight of Methos and Connor. The other immortals were apparently dealing with the same infliction. Mac idly wondered if this whole situation could have been avoided if they hadn't brought that cursed baseball.

"Well," Mikel cleared his throat, "If we are to do this, I think we should begin on page two. Unless anyone disagrees, I have a few questions about section D1."

There were mumblings of agreement and the delegates began flipping to the second page of the treaty. They weren't overtly excited, but at least it was something. Duncan released the breathe he hadn't known he was holding, and flipped the treaty over to the second page. His smile's size rivaled by Connor's and Methos'. "Page two, then." 

Over the next four and a half hours, they negotiated each section. The delegates raising hands to signal when they wished to speak. Their aids raced in and out of the room, carrying the revised sections of the treaty to be called to lawyers, analyzed, and then returned with points that had to be further discussed and explained. The mortals were slightly less organized than the immortals. The MacLeods did most of the talking while Methos rewrote the law every time it changed, checking for any possibly dangerous loopholes. It was an interesting procedure to watch. Duncan arguing one point. Connor reading over a note Methos scribbled down to add to the discussion. Methos furiously jotting down the revised bill, analyzing it, and then underlining words that would have to be changed, and parts that couldn't even be allowed in the treaty. And then, they'd switch roles almost unconsciously. Suddenly, Connor would speak up and then it was Duncan looking over Methos' arm to see what the old man was writing. Or Methos would end his silence to correct someone or help argue a point, and it was a MacLeod altering the treaty and examining the wording. The cycle flowed seamlessly. Even when someone went, escorted by a security guard, for a break to get food or relieve some bladder pressure, the immortals smoothly continued. They only stopped when another bell rang, signaling a break for everyone to eat.

"Phew," Duncan panted. "That was a hard law to change."

"Did you really think discussing the installation of capital punishment for certain immortals would be easy?" Methos leaned back against his chair, cracking his stiff spine. "Oh, I needed that."

"I need that coffee they're bringing in," Connor moaned. He was beginning to feel the wear of the peace talks.

"Smells good." The oldest of the trio eyed the white cart the caterers were wheeling in. He lazily watched as more uniformed men entered the room, positioning themselves by the exits. The others were setting up around the immortals' table while the delegates patiently waited in their seats for the sign that they could come down for the food. The only visible food was the coffee, but the covered silver platters promised something to fill Methos' aching stomach. The carrot sticks and celery stalks he'd been able to snack on during the first part of the conference had filled him only to a point. He licked his lips at the thought of cold cuts of ham and turkey. It had been awhile since he'd been able to enjoy a meal consisting of just that. 

"You're dreaming of turkey slices too?" mused Connor, focusing on the elegantly decorated cart in front of them. He didn't need to see his friend's head move to know he was right. They hadn't had cold meat slices in the Shelter. Jimbulaya always insisted on hot food. "I can barely remember what eating it is like."

"It's cold," teased MacLeod. 

"And you've got to chew it and then swallow," added Methos. "You can't skip that first step like we usually do when Jim's cooking." His good mood was halted when he noticed Luc standing at one of the exits. The guard's smile was too big. His arms were folded over his chest too proudly. Methos' instincts told him something wasn't right. Judging by the sharp intakes of breathe on either side of him, the oldest members of the Clan MacLeod shared his feelings. "Wha--"

The question was cut off in a blur of movement which resulted in guards being shoved out of the room, doors being barricaded, international leaders and their aids ducking under their tables, treaty papers and pens being pushed off the table, warning shots being fired thoughtfully at the immortals, caterers displaying their ammunition and gear, Duncan and Connor's corpses being held, bent over the table with their swords carefully pressing against the back of their necks, and Methos' reviving form being dragged over to the cart which had held the Connor's attention moments earlier. Waking to find his arms restrained behind him by another mortal he had thought would give him those coveted turkey slices, Methos groaned. He had been so sure no one would try this. They would be idiots if they did. Glimpsing Luc's grinning face again, Methos corrected himself. They were trying this because they were idiots.

"Just once, can't everyone use their brains," he muttered to himself.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Ugly," taunted Luc, standing in front of the slim man. "It's time for the world to see what kind of a killer you and your kind really are."

"And what kind is that?" Methos wasn't interested in the answer. Luc couldn't possibly know his past. If the smug jerk did, they wouldn't have bothered with this fiasco. Even if they were idiots. However, while the most-assuredly now fired guard rambled about what he and his compatriots believed, Methos could survey the room and positioning of the other caterers/terrorists.

"You think you can fool us?" There was one guard in each of the four aisles leading to the doors, a semi-automatic for each person, but they're attention was focused half on the cowering delegates and half on their comrades. Their reaction time would be greatly reduced. If they could be moved closer to the bottom level, there might be a way to save the other mortals in the room. "The moment I saw you I knew you were a murderer."

"What gave you that idea?" There was a guard at each exit, well armed, and alert. They would pose a problem. Drawing four people who didn't like their jobs closer was possible if he caused a big enough fuss. Creating enough trouble that would bring eight people down to his level, when six were serious about their duties, would be near impossible, even if he did want several United Nations members to be caught in the likely crossfire. Besides, camera operators were standing next to them-- instant hostages if Methos wasn't careful.

"You take each other's head, call it a game, and have the nerve to ask what told me you're a murderer?" Behind the smirking Luc were five other men. Two were merely holding the MacLeod cousins in place while the other two terrorists kept the katanas just above the immortals' necks. The men restraining Methos' companions were obviously straining muscles and nerves in their efforts to contain their captives. If Connor and Duncan were given the right opportunity, they could easily get away. The sword holding men weren't much of a problem either. Their attention was mostly on Methos. Unfortunately, the combination of the four men meant he would have to do something extreme if his friends were going to escape with their necks intact. "You aren't going to deny that *truth* are you?"

"Not when you have loaded guns aimed at mortals and sharp blades positioned at my friends' throats." The remaining man didn't seem to have a function. He was simply standing with his hands clasped behind him, intently watching the proceedings. This man with the thick black goatee was a definite wild card. A wild card with a bad comb-over, a beergut, and a wrinkled deep blue suit, but certainly an unpredictable element. Methos would have to see more about him before he could formulate an effective plan.

"But you admit it's the truth?" 

"I would confess to being a peacock with seven dwarfs as nephews, as long as you have guns pointed at people who can't survive being shot." Methos rotated his shoulders, noting his captor's reaction. The person holding him, a man judging by the flat chest, was a bit slow to tighten his grip on Methos' wrists, and that grip was fairly loose. It wouldn't be too difficult to escape from him.

"Then let's not point guns at them." Luc snapped his fingers and the guards hesitantly lowered their weapons. If the man was their leader, then they were his doubting followers. He certainly didn't look like a leader. Long, unruly hair often falling over his eyes, teeth which had already yellowed, and a strut that shouted arrogance. He was barely in his thirties too. An infant compared to the rest of the gang. Considering the others' response to his order, they probably thought of him as a child too. "Happy?"

Methos quelled the urge to say 'no' and request some cold turkey slices. "Could any answer I give be right?" he asked instead. He watched as Luc withdrew a butcher knife from the cart. Maybe the kid planned on beheading him on international television. The oldest man hadn't actually intended to lose his life on this endeavour. It was just nice to tell the mortals that, added to his reputation. "Maybe you should reconsider this, Luc."

"I'm surprised. You carry a sword and yet this little knife makes you nervous," Luc snickered.

"I get worried when babies hold sharp objects." The young man was not impressed by that remark. In fact, Methos surmised that being called a baby was a very sensitive blow to Luc. This theory was supported by the evidence of the blade sliding in and out of his stomach. Methos bent over in pain, one section of his brain noting that his captor allowed him to freely do so. Escaping the man's grasp would be easier than he thought.

"Just because you're a fossil doesn't mean I'm a baby," snarled the leader before death momentarily claimed Methos.

"Luc, calm down." Reviving, the oldest man smiled. The warning came from the suit clad man of their gang. Probably the one the others considered their true leader. "Just get him to confess."

"Don't order me around," barked Luc. "We agreed that since I could get you all past security I was in charge."

"Luc, don't argue." The voice came from behind Methos. It was either a man holding his wrists, or a flat-chested woman with an unbelievably deep voice. It didn't matter to Methos, of course. His attention was focused mainly on the MacLeods. "The real police aren't gonna stand outside forever. Either get him to talk or let Heath do it."

"Or give up now before someone gets hurt," Methos suggested. Duncan and Connor both caught his glance before he straightened his stance. He had an idea. "Let's be perfectly honest, *Luc*. You kill any immortal here and the quickening will likely cause enough structural damage to kill everyone in this room. Even if it doesn't, it'll be enough of a distraction that the thousands of real armed guards standing outside those doors will be able to storm this room, capture you and your minions, and save the other two immortals before you can kill them." Neither Luc nor Heath seemed to appreciate Methos' frankness. "And if you try to threaten those delegates again, they'll storm the room anyway before you could shoot anyone else."

"Shut up."

"Let's face facts, Luc." Methos ignored the man's warning. MacLeod tensed, recalling other times the old man had improvised. "This was a terrible plan."

"I have you exactly where I want you. Your friends are trapped. These traitors," he waved to indicate the politicians and their assistants, "are hiding like the cowards they are. And no one can stop us." Luc smirked. "This was a great plan."

"Oh, I'm not insulting the implementation of the plan," Methos corrected himself quickly. "You obviously had things well organized to get this far."

"Spoken like a man who's done this before," speculated Heath. "How many people have you killed?"

"I'm running the show," yelled Luc. "I ask the questions. You watch the doors. That's the deal."

"Oh, shut up," shouted the guard in the left aisle. "Heath can call the shots. We just needed you to let us in."

"I'm in charge!" Methos was slightly surprized the youth didn't stomp his foot with that pronouncement. "And I'll get the answers."

"Right, kid," the oldest man snorted. "What answers would you like? What does two plus two equal? What colour do yellow and blue make, perhaps?"

"Shut it, old man!" fumed the former guard. "How many people have you killed?"

"Didn't you ever learn to say 'please'? Or are you still learning your alphabet, child?" That butcher knife was moving toward him again. Methos mentally smiled. This was going to be too easy. "Do your parents try to teach you any manners when they feed you?"

"Don't kill him again!" hollered Heath, instantly walking toward the youth. Methos noticed the other guards were moving closer to the bottom level. Maybe he couldn't cause enough fuss to draw them from their positions, but two men fighting over leadership certainly could. "You idiot, we want a confession, not a corpse."

"Back off," cautioned Luc, waving the knife around. "Even if I killed him, he'd revive." The rest of the gang was getting closer, even the guards at the doors were slowly inching away from their posts. The other mortals in the room were being forgotten. "If he doesn't know we're serious, he's never going to talk."

"He's not going to talk while he's dead either," argued the man holding Methos' wrists. Duncan licked his lips, sensing the tension rising every second. He could only hope this was part of the plan.

"I'm not going to talk regardless," Methos put in. "I don't like talking while restrained. I feel it hinders a conversation. Don't you agree, Heath?" He purposefully looked past Luc. "You are the brains of this operation? The real leader of this group, right?" 

MacLeod caught his kinsman's eye, ensuring they were both ready, as the answer was a mixture of 'yes' and 'no' coming from various people in the room. At any moment, the tension explosion would occur and then they could try to escape.

"Luc is the runt you leave for the police to catch, isn't he?" Methos continued.

"I am not!" raved the man in question. "Stop trying to start trouble."

"He wouldn't be able to start trouble if you'd calm down and let Heath do his work," heatedly insisted Methos' captor. Connor's muscles tensed as the blade at his neck was unconsciously moved down his back. The man holding it was no longer concentrating on his possible victim. 

"I am in charge so just shut up!" Luc protested while Duncan sensed his guards easing away from him, finding the scene Methos was creating far more interesting. "You obey my orders. I am the leader!"

"Then I almost hate to break it to you, Luc, but I think there's a mutiny a foot," Methos casually added. It was just the push the thirty-something male needed and a flurry of action followed. 

The butcher knife finally rediscovered the oldest immortal's gut. Heath charged at the man they had pretended was their leader. The guards in the aisles raced to break up the fight. The MacLoeds used the distraction to kick the sword carrying men in the legs. The men holding them against the table were unprepared for the action and soon were unconscious on the floor, courtesy of two powerful punches. The armed security guards finally had the opportunity to barge into the room, knocking down the rebels with only a few shots being fired. The commotion wasn't overlooked by the battling group in front of Methos, but their momentary shock was long enough for the old man to revive, break the grip on his wrists and lunge at the men before him. Heath howled in pain as his fall twisted his ankle. Duncan grabbed one terrorist off the pile while Connor took on another. The real security guards were racing down the aisles, shouting orders that the intruders should surrender and that delegates should stay down. MacLeod knocked down the man who had restrained Methos. Connor put a gun to a woman's temple, urging her to give up. Methos struggled with Luc on the carpeted floor. The two deaths had reduced the old man's energy and the youth was angry enough not to care what his knife slashed. Unfortunately, it was mostly slashing Methos' stomach and underarms. Finally, after several tries, Methos was able to grab the thrashing arm and land a strong elbow to the young man's chin. A quick left hook followed and Luc was unconscious. Carefully, Methos stood up and backed away from the scene, examining the consequences of his scheme, while armed police officers handcuffed Luc's inert form.

As the entire group of terrorists were hauled from the room, Duncan and Connor checked on their still panting comrade. The politicians and their aids quietly sat in their chairs, allowing the recent events to absorb into their brains. Some custodians cleared out the food carts, which didn't have any food, let alone cold turkey slices. Other custodians straightened the immortals' table and chairs, leaning the swords against the back wall next to Methos.

"Are you okay?" Duncan knew it was a silly question to ask a man who had probably been in thousands of situations like this before. However, seeing his friend crouched against that wall, staring at the floor with vacant eyes, forced him to ask it anyway. 

"That was a close one, wasn't it?" Not looking up, Methos ignored the question. 

"Everyone made it out uninjured," Connor stated, eyeing the man responsible for their situation. "Well, everyone who couldn't heal fast and mattered."

"They all mattered," the eldest ground out before glaring at the sandy haired man. The younger MacLeod was relieved to see the light in those hazel eyes. "Don't say they didn't matter just because they thought we deserved to die. That's not what MacLeods are supposed to do, is it, Mac?"

"No, it's not," Duncan affirmed slowly, avoiding his cousin's gaze. "And friends are supposed to say if they're okay or not."

"I'm fine." Methos stood up, and straightened his tie, ignoring the large, stained slashes in his previously clean white shirt. "I just needed a little time-out to organize some thoughts." He gave a shaky smile. "Don't worry, guys, I'm okay."

Exchanging a doubtful expression with his cousin, Connor thumped the old man on the back. "Come on, they'll want to hear you say that after this whole ordeal."

"Especially since it was televised," mentioned MacLeod, picking up their swords.

"That brings up an interesting question," Methos said, allowing the highlanders to lead him back to their newly wiped steel table.

"And what's that?" Duncan set their weapons back on the metal surface.

"Do you think they got my best side?"

"Neither one is any better than the other," snickered Connor. "I'm still amazed you haven't broken a camera yet."

"Excuse me," a familiar voice called from the delegates' seats, "Methos, a question." Mikel's hand waved furiously, trying to get their attention. "How many have you killed?"

"Mikel, that is hardly appropriate," scolded Clive. "They've just been through this chaos."

"And we just passed a bill regarding killers," countered the Russian. "I think it is important to know how many people the man has killed."

"How many have I killed in five thousand years," repeated Methos. To the shock of the congregation, the oldest immortal actually considered the question. He rubbed his chin, as though mentally tallying up the bodies. "Far more than I can count, honestly." Methos frowned in concentration. "I have lived through wars and battles, through times when laws weren't obeyed or were vastly more brutal than today; through times when the way of life was kill or be killed, times when shortcomings in medicine meant that granting death was the medicine. The number of people I have sent to the grave by intention, mistake and order is unfortunately very high." He looked at the gathered delegates, his face the model of sincerity and regret. "I have never been so inhuman as to believe that those deaths were meaningless, nor have I gone a day without wishing that history was different. I am a man whose hands are stained with the blood of the guilty and sadly the innocent as well." He paused to briefly glance at this companions, to see the support in their eyes before continuing. "I will understand if you wish to continue these talks without me."

"After seeing you in action today, I believe that would be a mistake," the female German Chancellor announced after a beat. "I am sure you have done and been many things, both commendable and regrettable. However, you are clearly someone wanting life and peace. You are not a cold-blooded murderer. I suggest that while they find some food, we continue with these negotiations with you and your friends."

Several 'agreed's were shouted before the immortals reclaimed their seats. Connor eyed the scattered papers of what used to be the treaty. "Just give us some time to organize this." He switched off the microphones as he and the other immortals attempted to make sense of the mess.

"Don't say it, either of you," Methos firmly cautioned, grabbing his briefcase from under the table. "You can scold me on the way to the Shelter."

"I wasn't going to reprimand you." Duncan began putting the half of the papers into a pile while Connor handled the other half. "Unless, of course, you were seriously going to sit out the rest of the treaty talks. We can't do this without you."

"You two would do just fine," Methos whispered, turning his eyes back to his case, searching for new pens. He had no idea where the old ones had flown to when Luc and his merry band had attacked. "Thanks for the thought though."

"I don't know. I think we could handle this without him," commented Connor, checking the page numbers to ensure they were in the correct order. "Just as long as we were the ones holding on to that lucky baseball of yours." The light-hearted suggestion brought a smile to the ancient's lips, and Duncan made a mental note to thank his cousin for coming. "Ready?"

Doubling checking the pages' order, Mac nodded. "I'm ready for peace."

"I am more than ready," Methos remarked before switching their microphones back on. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. Shall we start where we left off, on page twenty-six?"

"Perhaps we should delay this further," suggested a short woman in the fifth row in the right section. The Spanish President pointed at Methos. "You should, first, fully recover from the shock those mad men caused."

"Any more delays could invite other attacks," Connor announced. "It is safer if we continue until we come to a tentative agreement, as we were promised."

"Your Methos was stabbed at least two times."

"I'm fine."

"But--"

"I will take as many wounds as it takes to get this treaty signed," asserted Methos. "Maybe you can wait for peace, but I can't. I have been hated and hunted for too long. I am tired of it. I know that things won't and can't even change the moment we reach an agreement, but the MacLeods and I initiated these talks with the hope that one day, in the near future, that dream can be true for each and every person in this world, immortal or not. Quite frankly, I never cared if you came to meet me, see the highlander cousins, or really did come to end the fighting." His voice was growing in volume, the energy it contained was almost tangible. "I came here for peace, and I will not leave until I have that guaranteed! I refuse to again slink away and cower in some dark little corner because people don't like what I am and don't want the huge inconvenience of figuring it out. If you want peace and change half as badly as I do, then by the gods, you will stay here and get it!"

Those words of encouragement were enough to silence any other objections and ensure everyone stayed, hammering out the treaty. The seamless cycle employed by the immortals before was a bit rougher. All three men were more eager to speak up this time. However, they adapted to their new ambition, as well as the leaders'. Food was brought from the cafeteria into the conference room so the negotiations were not interrupted. The excitement of the attack and the speech made by Methos were strong motivations. The action was fast-paced, details were discussed with fury. The aides were frantically running in and out of conference room. Finally, after a total of thirteen hours and fifty-four minutes of tough negotiation, they proudly announced that the peace treaty was completed. With resounding applause, president after prime minister signed the newly printed document.

Methos reclined in his hard wood chair and closed his eyes, savouring the feel of victory. He was half-tempted to run up to a camera and say 'Hi' to the people watching in the Shelter. But his body resisted the urge, vehemently arguing that he required rest. His smile grew. He could hear more clapping, more cheering, as someone else put their name on the finished treaty. There was also the sound of glass hitting glass, someone must have ordered wine or champagne to celebrate. He'd open his eyes when they gave him a glass, or when he heard papers rustling on their way to MacLeod. He wanted to see his friend sign that treaty, wanted to have that scene seared into his memory. But those sounds and thoughts were interrupted by whispering at the end of their table. "Mac?" His eyes remained closed.

"Yes?" The whispering stopped.

"What were you two talking about over there?"

"We were wondering what language you were going to use to sign your name on the treaty," the voice was hoarse and low. Obviously Connor.

"I'm not, so you can stop chatting." He could imagine the happy faces as his friends, allies really, came out of the Shelter. Jellybean and Mushroom would probably run straight for a tree and then urge him to climb up with them.

"You're not what?" The question stopped the vision just as Shirley was scolding him for letting the kids climb up a tree. She always said he was too much like a kid. "Methos, you're not what? Using a known language?"

"I'm not signing it, Mac. You are." Now his mind was picturing Joe and Amanda coming to see him and the MacLeod cousins. The French President had promised them that their favourite bluesman would be released from prison and the hospital in two days. There would be a huge press meeting at the hospital, but they would be allowed to take Joe home to see his daughter and her family. 

"What do you mean Duncan's signing it?" Connor's question ended the scene playing in Methos' head, just when Joe was going to say something to his oldest buddy.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe exactly what it sounds like. He signs." Methos sniffed as his mind played another scene. Samuel was there, waving to his oldest friend. His voice was muted, but he was smiling. The oldest man watched as the man who appeared to be in his forties gestured for someone hiding behind a corner, probably Lucy. But no one was coming out and then Samuel was frowning, gripping his throat, his eyes pleading with Methos to stop his invisible pain. Methos shuddered before opening his eyes.

"What's wrong?" MacLeod was observing him with concern spread over his face.

"N-nothing." Methos exhaled a shaky breathe. "Just remembering why no victory is truly sweet." His heart slowly stopped its pounding. "I'm okay, Mac. You, uh, you know what, um, language you're going to use to sign the treaty?"

Duncan frowned, having seen that flash of cold emptiness briefly invading Methos' eyes, and knowing that his friend wasn't going to talk about whatever had upset him. "No."

"We discussed it and think you should do it." Connor leaned closer to the old man.

"I thought *we* discussed it before and decided Mac was going to be the Immortal Ambassador so he signs."

"No, *we* didn't."

"Methos, you're a better choice for the position than I am."

"Right, the guy who used to be called 'Death' is a better choice than the immortal boy scout. Is that it?"

"You haven't been killing anyone since I met you."

"We've been stuck in a cave with thirty-four other people since you met me. Who could I really kill, Connor?"

"The Immortal Ambassador has to talk about the needs of immortals in general and ensure that these laws are respected," Duncan pressed on. "Who better than the one who's been listening to other immortals for decades to know what they want? The one person in the all the world who created these laws?"

"The one who can enforce them?" Methos suggested, irritably. "Look, Mac, people naturally believe you. I knew that the day I met you, and that hasn't changed. When people look at me, they see... I don't know, someone who isn't famously honest. My reputation may have gotten me this far, but it won't last while I'm Ambassador. Yours can and will because it isn't made up."

"Neither is yours. If you'd open your eyes, you'd realize that."

"My eyes are wide open, and I see that you are the best person for the job."

"Though I have the utmost confidence in my cousin," Connor inserted, "Methos, you're the best choice. You're smart, know politics, laws, people--"

"And I can rub my belly while patting my head," the neolithic man quipped. "That doesn't mean anything."

"With everything you've done, Methos, you can relate to almost anyone."

"That too doesn't mean anything."

"The Ambassador has to get the other countries not connected to the UN to agree to this treaty. You can do that."

"So can you, MacLeod. If you really want, I'll be your advisor. But I am not putting my name on that treaty. It deserves someone better than that."

"It deserves the man who created it and made sure it was made international law."

"I said before you were going to do it and that's it."

"I'm not signing."

"Fine, Connor can."

"I'm not signing either."

"Then the treaty isn't getting signed," snipped Methos. "We just wasted time and energy securing peace and you're throwing it away."

"We're not throwing anything away," Connor asserted. "You're the one who's going to sign."

The oldest immortal folded his arms over his chest, and glared at the senior MacLeod. "Duncan led our happy troupe to this place, to peace. His name gets put on the treaty, end of discussion."

There was a commotion as the document was brought down the aisle. It was the immortals' turn to write a name and make peace official.

"That's not final," argued the younger Scot in a hushed voice. "You led us here, Methos. You set up the conference, wrote the treaty, fought for the peace, and your name gets put on the treaty."

"I didn't--"

"Besides, if you don't, these mortals are going to think something's wrong," Connor coolly concluded. "They expect you to be the one signing and if you make Duncan or I do it-- well, wouldn't you think something was up?"

Further argument was stopped as Clive proudly placed the peace contract before Methos. The old man gave both MacLeods a cold stare before eyeing the pen. Slowly, he stood up and switched on the microphones. "I have no intention of offending any one," he began. Connor face dropped while Duncan swallowed nervously. What if Methos really wasn't going to sign? "I have given this some thought and, after a quick discussion with my associates," he indicated the two worried highlanders, "I have come to a conclusion which some of you may not appreciate." Duncan felt a sharp kick to his leg; his cousin's kind way to telling him to do something, anything. "I apologize if I have alarmed anyone by this announcement, but I feel it is important, especially considering what I am about to do." The junior MacLeod prepared to rise, lest Methos make a statement they would all regret. "Though I have enjoyed the many cultures and languages I have discovered through my extensive travels over the millennia, and I have great respect for each and every one of them, I have decided to write my name in my original language." The MacLeods released their breaths. "I believe this will be the best way to signify my support of the treaty, and desire to preserve it. Thank-you." Methos switched off the microphones, and signed the document. He cast a sideways glance at his friends before whispering in Gaelic. "Don't gloat, Mac. It's unbecoming, you know."

The consequential laughter was drown out by the applause. Soon glasses filled with champagne were given to the immortals as the politicians personally shook their hands and patted their backs. Methos was the primary interest, but Duncan and Connor socialized with several people as the conference and celebration neared their end. However, while everyone had genuine smiles, Duncan realized Methos' never reached his eyes. Remembering Pear's words days earlier, he frowned. They hadn't won the lottery in the old man's eyes.

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Chapter Eleven: The Peace After Peace Was Granted 

"Have you never been mellow? 

Have you never tried to find a comfort from inside you? 

Have you never been happy just to hear your song? 

Have you never let someone else be strong?" 

--("Have You Never Been Mellow?" Lyrics By: Farrar)

Connor looked in his rear view mirror, sadly observing the sullen man slouched in the back seat. The old warrior's heart ached for the poor creature staring blindly at the passing darkened scenery. The pale body's eyes were as black as the night through which they were traveling, but unsettlingly more hollow. The cadaver itself was still, solid, and yet, appeared as though a ghost to the seasoned highlander watching it. The form had a definite face and partial outline provided by the glowing moon lazily dangling in the star-spackled sky. However, beyond that, the skin-wrapped skeleton seemed invisible; the rest of its appendages, and its shredded and tattered clothing effortlessly blending in with the shadows in the rear of the Range Rover. 

Occasionally, the stray ray of light of a passing vehicle would illuminate the inert body. The eyes would allow the glare to reflect on their dark surfaces, giving them the illusion of life, but denied it penetration to anything buried beneath. The face hosting the black orbs ignored the light all together. It refused to move or twitch, merely continued resting itself against the cold window as the automobile bounced down the bumpy dirt road. The remainder of the body revealed its existence during those short seconds, and then dutifully returned to its dark home. It stayed unmoving, quiet, and eerily paler than either highlander had seen it before. 

Connor had tried to communicate with the man lost in the backseat. Each attempt was answered with unnerving silence, and an inexplicable chill which would suddenly invade the SUV's interior before scurrying up the senior Scot's spine. He was certain he had voiced his question, having checked with his cousin more than once, but the body was oblivious to his inquiry; to his existence, to Duncan's, and perhaps even to its own. Instead, all Connor could do was whisper to his cousin. An irrational fear prevented him from speaking any louder, as though afraid he would wake the dead which clearly wished to sleep in its coffin of pale flesh. Duncan seemed to share the fear and would reply in hushed tones, short and to the point. The corpse they were transporting was sucking their joyful conversations away from them before the pair could even initiate them; hiding those gleefilled words deep within where nothing living could hope to reach them. 

"What are we going to do, Duncan?" The question was strained, as their speaker realized the world outside was brighter than the inside of the Range Rover. They couldn't return to the Shelter with a man who, with all physical signs brushed aside, was dead.

"I don't know." Once again, MacLeod dared to look back at his friend's body. Somewhere, buried under layers of depression and loss, lay Methos. But that soul had surrendered to the weight of long-denied pain and suffering as soon as the trio had begun their drive back to their hideout. It had sunk to the bottom of the neolithic heart, drown barely before it gulped one last breath, and had yet to swim to the surface. Methos' eyes weren't pools of black. They were black holes; spheres void of anything, vacuuming the world around them without care or consideration. The information merely passed through those portals as though it didn't exist, those same portals which once captured everything, studied it, felt it, and shimmered with knowledge as a result. "I thought maybe he'd snap out of it."

The mournful confession pushed the knife even deeper into Connor's already injured heart. The cadaver was also drawing the hope out of the living immortals, it seemed. "We can't tell them that he suddenly went like that. Jimbulaya is protective of Sweet Pea, so is Peaches. They're likely to try to beat the truth out of us."

"But that is the truth," replied Duncan, looking away from the man who stubbornly refused to acknowledge his presence.

"They don't know that," protested Connor, checking the rear view again as he had been instructed when they left the United Nations Headquarters. It had been the last thing Methos had uttered before he went into his lifeless trance. "Make sure we're not followed. We don't need reporters finding the Shelter," he had said, before looking out the window. Somewhere along the way, without the notice of his two companions, the ancient immortal had stopped looking out that window. Somewhere along that long route, he had stopped seeing what was directly infront of his lean face.

"They'll have to believe us," Duncan insisted, feeling a chunk of cold fear forming in his stomach. The thought of Methos' persistent refusal to sign the treaty was floating in the Scot's head. Maybe his old friend knew something like this would happen, but couldn't bring himself to clearly warn them. Was Duncan really so busy believing *in* his friend that he failed to simply believe Methos? MacLeod swallowed hard, the lingering dread seizing his mind as he was unable to dismiss the concept. 

"No, they don't have to believe us," pressed the senior highlander. "They're going to see Methos' body, ask what happened, and they won't accept that we don't have a clue." Connor glared at the new Immortal Ambassador. In turn, Methos remained still, silent, and decidedly dead to the world. "The politicians aren't going to deal with this either. They can't see Methos like that."

"I know, but we can't just hide him from everyone," Duncan stated while his cousin eyed a decrepit house coming into view. 

"We can't?" challenged Connor, "We don't have to dump him in the middle of nowhere. We could bring him to the Shelter, endure the beatings, and then keep him there until he recovers. We could tell the public that he wanted to savour his peace alone for awhile."

Duncan couldn't deny the appeal the idea had. It was similar to Methos and Cassandra's deal. It could work. His heart was persuading him that it was what Methos would have wanted. "We could tell them that if he had lost his head, they would have seen a quickening. It would prove that he was still alive... physically anyway."

"They would believe it and then we could get Liam to help him, or someone else with psychiatric training." 

For moment Duncan thought he was dreaming, and he was certain his heart had skipped a beat. He could have sworn that Methos had just blinked. It was an action he had missed since he and his cousin had noticed Methos' comatose state. However, the ancient was blinking again, and the moonlight wasn't reflecting off the eyes' surface, but rather something behind them; something forcefully pushing its way past the darkness which previously smothered it. MacLeod reverently touched his cousin's arm, and breathed one command that summoned both of his friends to action, "Look."

As Connor observed Methos, the source of their prior concern sniffed and straightened his posture while gazing out the window. What exactly he was looking at, the older highlander didn't know. But whatever it was, it was driving Methos to move, to stretch, to finally speak. "Turn back."

"Where?"

"To the house we just passed." Methos finally looked at the highlanders, noticing the grim expressions on their faces. However, he had nothing more to say, nothing he could say. Instead he attempted to smile, failed, and determinedly began trying to press out his permanently wrinkled suit.

The senior MacLeod considered his options. He could ignore Methos' request and go to the Shelter so the old man could receive professional help or he could return to the house which had spurned the oldest immortal from his coma-like state. With a frown, Connor turned the SUV around and headed to the worn down house.

Methos was out of the vehicle the moment it stopped in front of the uninviting building. He stood for a minute, admiring the structure's beauty which only he could see. As the MacLeods came to stand behind him, they could only see a decrepit, deserted house which had abandoned all attempts to look welcoming years before. "This is the place."

"The place for what?" inquired Duncan, a combination of joy and sadness stirring in his heart as he saw an expression of glee wash over his friend's face.

"For what I need to do," replied Methos before turning to look at his companions. "I'll be staying here tonight. You two can pick me up tomorrow afternoon."

"Out of the question."

"I have my sword. I'll survive."

"We are not leaving you here alone," stated Connor. "Perhaps you can't remember it, but for almost the past hour your mind wasn't in that skull of yours. We can all look over the house together, do whatever it is you need to get done, and then we'll leave for the Shelter."

Methos thought for a few minutes, considering his options. "No deal. I have to stay here tonight without interruptions. Mac can stay and watch me, but not both of you. Leave the snacks we swiped from the conference. We'll leave tomorrow afternoon."

"Methos--"

"That's the deal. Take it or leave it, Connor."

Sharing a conversation using only their faces and eyes, the highlanders reluctantly decided to accept the offer. The elder Scot hesitantly returned to their transportation and drove off, frustrated eyes looking in the rear view mirror until he could no longer see the outlines of his friends.

"Well, Meth--" Duncan stopped speaking once he realized Methos was not standing beside him, but actually walking up to the porch. Grimacing, he hurriedly caught up, upset by his friend's behaviour and uneasy by the house's appearance close-up.

The oldest immortal was oblivious to the mansion's disarray. He cheerfully reached over the door frame, feeling for a rusted key. The facts that both porch windows were broken and the door had a chopped hole large enough to allow Moby Dick entry were ignored by the ancient male. He grinned as his lean fingers caressed the key before removing it from its hiding place and put it in the door's lock. The miracle that the metal object had still been there after years, possibly decades, was deemed as important as the other routes of entrance. Methos eagerly licked his lips as the broken door opened to reveal an even more depressing interior than the house's exterior.

The inside of the house lacked many things. Light dared to creep only a few feet past broken windows. Wind decided that the wooden structure was too uninviting. Delightful aromas were denied admittance long before Methos and MacLeod had approached the building. Life had escaped its rotting and decaying confines years prior, and ghosts of the past refused to remain. Despite the few pieces of furniture left in the house, it was barren.

Unless, of course, one was to look at the decor through Methos' eyes. The ancient didn't seem to notice these eerie facts which set Mac's nerves on edge. Instead the slim man smiled before sauntering towards the stairs. "My room's on the second floor, closest to the stairs and first door on the right."

"Wait," Duncan called out, grabbing his friend's arm. "I'm here to keep you safe while you do... whatever you're going to do. First, we check out this place. Then, you can go sleep in your room."

Not having the luxury to argue, Methos nodded his reluctant consent. "Fine, but we'll make it quick and then you have to promise not to disturb me no matter what."

There was something about how the old man had said 'no matter what' which made the hairs on MacLeod's neck stand on end. However, he could find nothing overtly wrong with the statement and Methos was compromising already. With a deep frown, MacLeod agreed.

The rest of the house was in as great shape as the lobby had suggested. Wallpaper had peeled. Paint had either faded or chipped off. Most doors were either off their hinges or had been hacked apart. The majority of furniture had been slashed open, stuffing ripped out and thrown aside with as much respect as one would expect a thief to have. The stairs were sturdy, but the railing shook. The windows had all been smashed open, and drapes were rarely intact. Beds were non-existent, while tattered blankets were occasionally scattered on the floors of some rooms. Cupboards were bare, chairs were turned over, tables were shoved against walls for a reason only the person who moved them could explain. Books had been either burnt or ripped. The cellar's stone walls were cracked, and the shards of its lone light bulb were still laying haphazardly on the floor. Cobwebs and dust were apparently trying to replace everything the house lacked. Every room was less cluttered than MacLeod's room at the Shelter, just dirtier.

"Satisfied?" Methos curtly asked, already leaving the basement.

"Yes, I suppose it's safe." Turning, Duncan barely had time to finish his answer before he saw his friend dashing up the stairs. "Methos!"

"You promised no interruptions," came the reminding shout.

With a snort of frustration, MacLeod left the darkened room and headed for the den... or what he assumed was once a den. It was the room in which at least one person had decided to pile books on to a sofa to make a bonfire. Luckily, a handful novels had survived the horrendous act... only to be have pages torn out later on. It was a sight that made the highland barbarian sigh. Sadly, he picked up a book of T.S. Elliot poems which was merely singed on the edges of its cover and missing only the first twelve pages. After brushing off one nearly intact cushion, Mac plopped his exhausted body down and began reading... or at least attempted to read. His mind refused to focus on the printed words, more interested in looking at the room. 

There was something nagging at his senses. It wasn't the placement of dust or the chaos apparent in each room. It wasn't the lack of wind. Duncan began systematically considering each aspect of the house. The absence of window panes was not bothering him. It wasn't the limited moonlight illuminating what otherwise would be a completely darkened building. Methos' behaviour was a concern, but that wasn't what was setting Mac's nerves on edge. He replayed their search of the house, recalling every area which had required closer inspection. It wasn't the porch roof that rested where it had collapsed infront of the back door. It hadn't been the broken doors or even the doors which were whole. However, Mac, now rising to his feet, had a feeling the problem had been present throughout their investigation. There hadn't been another person in the house. He had checked enough times to ensure that. The highlander could not remember thinking that someone had been following or watching them. His heart rate was slowly increasing as he headed for the stairs. He may have promised not to disturb Methos, but there could be a serious situation underfoot. As he climbed the stairs, he finally heard it. Or more precisely, he didn't. 

MacLeod stopped on the third step and gazed around the room, realizing just how quiet the place was. In fact, as Duncan remembered his tour/search, the building was unsettlingly silent. The floor and stairs didn't creak. Hinges refused to squeak. There was no breeze whistling through the house. No birds sang from the rafters in the attic. Mice refrained from whispering in the cellar. The only sounds that had been present were the ones MacLeod and Methos had made. Feeling slightly sheepish that he had almost bothered the old man over literally nothing, Duncan wandered back to his seat in the ruined study.

Again he tried to read, but his mind kept pondering what Methos had seen when he looked at the rooms. His smile had never wavered, though his eyes had lost their light a few times. He had opened each door, ignoring if it was no longer firmly attached to its frame. Methos had even commented that his messy room was "just perfect for tonight's events." Of what events he spoke were a mystery to MacLeod, but the assertment seemed to heighten Methos' determination to end the inspection quickly. Deciding not to dwell on a question that could possibly never be answered, Mac returned his eyes to the old poems; only to have his attention snatched by what sounded like a wind's low-pitched squeal. The sound came again, louder, and again. 

Hesitantly, Duncan went in search of its source. The noise was getting louder. As he approached the stairs, he realized it was coming from Methos' room. Growing concerned with each step, MacLeod raced up the wooden stairs, the noises increasing in volume and frequency as he did so. There was the sound of wood being broken and glass shattering when he finally reached the door. Then there was yelling and crying, but the door was locked. He forcefully jiggled the handle and hit the door, shouting all the while with the hope that his voice would overpower the screams eminanting from his friend's room. Just as MacLeod was about to kick the door open, Methos' voice flew from the behind the wooden barrier, "Why?!"

It was not the question which stopped MacLeod. It was the heart-cringing tone in which it was spoken. The intense sense of lost and greif tightly wrapping itself around each letter. It was the voice Duncan had longed to hear when he had tried to confront Methos about Lucy and Samuel the first night he had arrived at the Shelter. It was unseen tears which he knew flowed with the word. It was the need and desperation hiding in those three letters. It was the strange comforting feeling which accompanied the shout. It was the way honest admission displayed itself in the short question that gave MacLeod pause. It was the mixed softness and harshness in the tone which triggered the memory of Mac giving Methos his word. It was the sound of clothes being violently torn that forced the highlander to obey his earlier promise with a heavy-heart, sensing he was both failing and passing a test. It was the painful sobbing which followed Methos' inquiry that made Duncan back up until he could slide his back down the adjacent wall. It was the sound of things still being broken which kept his eyes glued to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. It was the sorrowful whispered cries slipping past the door which caused him to finally close his eyes, fighting back tears as the realization of exactly how much pain his friend had held inside his frail figure hit. It was the sudden thuds of fists hitting walls that forced the Scottish warrior to wrap his arms around his legs and silently pray that Methos would be all right in the morning. It was the rhythymic sound of his oldest friend weeping and breaking to which Duncan MacLeod, physically and emotionally tired, fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Look to the stars…

"Towering waves

Will crash across your southern capes

Massive storms 

Will reach your eastern shores

Fields of green

Will tumble through your summer days

By design

In your time"

--("In Your Time" Lyrics: Bob Seger)

When the morning sun finally arrived, warming the highlander's stiff body, Mac awoke to find a piece of wood lying at his feet. Wiping the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he looked at the object. It had obviously been pulled off of something, drops of blood had been absorbed in its grain, and the words written upon it had been crudely craved. A quick glance showed Methos' door was still closed, probably locked, but it was quiet inside. Turning his eyes back to the primitively created message, MacLeod frowned. The note stated that he was to knock down a false wall at the far end of the cellar, collect some cases of wine presumably hidden behind it, and then give them to Connor and explain that they would not be leaving today after all. After deciding against trying the doorknob to Methos' room since he might be waking the old man, Mac slowly went to work.

The wall was difficult to break. However, with a little ingenuity, a shovel long discarded in the cellar, and a bit of luck, the old barrier slowly crumbled to reveal a large room stocked with even older wine. The alcohol wasn't exceptional, but then again one didn't normally judge a wine while munching on salted crackers and celery sticks. Methos remained silently locked in his room until after noon. Then the noises came and MacLeod winced, fighting his instincts to help his friend, reminding himself that he had sworn he would leave Methos alone. 

The highland warrior busied himself with bringing the wine cases outside. The gaping hole in the front door eased the transporting of the bottles of vintage liquid. Rather than attempting to hold a door open while sliding his burden and himself through as usual, MacLeod could merely step through the door's chopped opening with the boxes in his arms. Not trusting the sturdiness of the rotting wooden porch, Duncan placed the cases on the ground at the foot of the porch steps. Calling himself a coward, but wanting to avoid facing the unsettling screams coming from within the house, he decided to remain outside to greet Connor.

The weather outside was much like it was the day before: warm, with only a sparse amount of fluffy, white clouds in the blue sky. Though the sun was already descending from its peak, there was still adequate light in the late afternoon. There was also a strong breeze, which helped to cool Mac's sweaty body. It was a refreshing change from the stall air lingering in the graying building. Standing there, at the foot of the porch, the highlander took deep breaths and spread out his arms, savouring the relaxation that came with the actions. For years, he'd been refused this. The opportunity to simply stand in the open and enjoy what Mother Nature offered, without fear of attack, had been a luxury for far too long; a luxury he had been without since the world had discovered the immortal truth. After a few moments more, he opened his eyes and lowered his arms. With a small smile, Duncan sat beside the wine cases and waited for Connor, enjoying his newly rediscovered freedom and subsequently worrying about a man who had helped restore it.

While silently urging his kinsman to return fast, the younger MacLeod couldn't deny his anxiety over their future meeting. The deal had been that Methos and Duncan would leave this decaying wreck once Connor returned. Now he had been given the charge to convince his intimidating cousin to leave with merely wine. He somehow had to persuade a man he respected and loved, to turn his back on two friends for a while longer because one friend –the one who had seemed a lifeless shell in the backseat of his car the night before—had requested this and he must have a good reason. He was expected to stand before a man who had taught him and could still probably best him in a swords fight, and tell this man to ignore the love-driven concerns undoubtedly voiced by numerous friends at the Shelter and leave without Methos or any sign the mental state of the oldest immortal was actually improving. He prayed Connor wouldn't kill him for foolishly believing that there might be a way he could succeed. 

Before he was able to formulate a plan, MacLeod heard a car coming up the road. He quickly ran up the porch stairs and through the broken door. Strategically positioning himself against the wall just to the right of the door, the highland warrior peered outside while removing his sword from its sheath in his coat. MacLeod strained his eyes as the bright rays of the sun glinted off the shiny vehicle heading their way. It was a Range Rover, the same colour and model they had used to get to this house. However, there was no guarantee its driver would be his friend. Finally the SUV pulled up to the building and Connor stepped out. Duncan released a sigh of relief before putting his sword away and walking to greet his clansman.

"Where's Methos?" the eldest MacLeod asked without preamble.

"Still inside," Duncan responded. "There's been a change of plans."

Narrowed eyes focused on the younger man. "Oh?"

"Connor," he began, hastily attempting to find just the right words to resolve his situation. "Methos has been working out a lot of pent up emotions. He isn't ready to face others yet. He thinks that by tomorrow—"

"That wasn't the deal."

"I know, but he—"

"Exactly how bad is he?"

"I don't know, exactly. He locked himself in a room last night. I haven't seen him since," the youngest of the pair explained. "I wanted to help him. I could hear him breaking things in his room, screaming and crying—"

"What did you do?" Connor's question was spoken with unrivaled gentleness and concern for his former student. 

"If you could have heard him…" MacLeod briefly looked at the cold house behind him, idly wondering if he could hear Methos' cries even now, outside, or if the heart-wrenching sounds were mere echoes in his mind. "I was going to break down the door-- it wouldn't have helped, but... If I just knew—but I don't know whom he's mourning or if that's the only reason he's in such pain. Last night, I knew he wouldn't accept a hug. I wasn't sure he'd even recognize me; his pain is so great…" Shaking his head to rid himself of the disheartening memories, he continued. "Methos needs to do this alone; there's nothing we can do."

"There is plenty we can do," Connor disagreed. "We can pack his scrawny butt into the car and bring it back to the Shelter. He can work out his problems on the way."

"Connor--."

"Go tell him we care, and then drag him out. We're leaving, as planned."

Mac fixed his friend with a hard stare.

"People at the shelter saw the look on his face after Luc was taken away." Connor stated, as if that simple sentence would explain everything. 

"And?"

"*And* while they may have accepted that Methos wanted to savour life outside of the shelter for one night alone, they'll rip me apart if I try to feed that bull to them again." The senior highlander replied, his aggravation clearly present in his tone. "Everyone's worried about him and he needs professional help."

"His note said that tomorrow he should be fine."

"His note?" Connor repeated incredulously. "He's lost it, Duncan. We both knew he was getting overloaded. If we push him a little, we can get him the help he needs."

"I think we've pushed him enough."

Not liking his cousin's tone, Connor raised his chin slightly, instinctively readying himself for an unintentional challenge. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Duncan ran a hand over his tired face and released a sigh of frustration. He didn't want to argue or assign blame. He didn't want to be in such a precarious position that threatened those very actions. 

"Duncan?"

"Maybe if we hadn't insisted he do so much work for this, it wouldn't be so bad." His kinsman was already shaking his head in denial. "Connor, we made him become the ambassador, organize the treaty negotiations, schedule—"

"And what would have happened if we hadn't?" The seasoned warrior interrupted. "Do you really believe he would have been better off if we hadn't kept him occupied? If he hadn't been able to focus on duty after duty, Methos would have lost what little hold he had on sanity long before now." Allowing the information to be digested by his clansman, Connor waited a moment before continuing. "I tried talking to him when I first came to the Shelter. He always had work to do, said he'd deal with it later. After a while, I realized his way was to push himself so much that he couldn't feel the pain."

"Then you should have *made* him work through it back then. By time I went to talk about Lucy and Samuel, he was completely ignoring their importance, just focusing on the treaty."

"So am I guilty of pushing him too much or too little?"

The junior MacLeod was taken aback by the gentle inquiry. He rubbed his face with one hand, feeling the building stress with every movement. He looked back that the decaying building. "I don't know. I just feel so… useless to him. Last night all that separated us was this… lousy, wooden door. I heard him crying and… I couldn't go in and comfort him."

"Duncan—"

"If I broke it down, if I broke that old, rotting door last night… I would have broken a promise and who knows what else. So I just sat there, Connor, hoping, dreaming things would be okay…"

"It will be okay."

"You didn't hear him."

"No, I didn't. But he needs to get out of this place."

"He needs more."

"Yes, and once we're back at the shelter, we'll get him the help he needs."

"No," Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod said with a sudden certainty. He met his kinsman's gaze, unflinching. "No. He needs no interruptions, here. He needs the time he asked for, and he needs us to give it to him."

"Duncan, will you listen? Methos has to leave here, now."

"No, he had to leave the shelter, and he shouldn't have to go back there until he's ready. If that means a little more time, then he stays here tonight."

After gauging the seriousness in his clansman's eyes, Connor snorted. "Now we know why he wanted you to stay with him."

"He's lost a lot. If he wants time, I think he deserves that much. At this point, it's the least we can give him."

"Fine, show me around." At Duncan's confused look, he elaborated. "No one at the shelter is going to be satisfied with just wine. They'll want to know all about this breath-taking bed and breakfast the mighty Methos is staying in."

"Breath-taking bed and breakfast?"

"I may embellished a little, just to get them off my back last night."

Chuckling, the younger man began guiding his elder through and around the premises. Each man devised ways to describe the crumbling mansion in flattering terms without completely lying. Long before the tour ended, the senior Scotsman silently admitted himself a coward for the relief he felt because he knew he could leave and evade the suffering present in a certain room on the right and closest to the stairs on the second floor. Connor told his former student all the news from the shelter, mentioned the global reaction to the treaty, packed the wine cases into the SUV, wished his kinsman some much needed good luck, and then, in his own shameful opinion, he fled to the shelter.

It was evening when Connor had finally left Duncan to watch over the world's oldest immortal—who just happened to have left his room sometime during Connor's visit, was no longer screaming or crying, and was nowhere to be found as far as Duncan could see. There was an immortal presence coming from somewhere, but he couldn't pinpoint where. The trained hunter looked around the interior, checking all nooks, and the exterior of the house, paying close attention to the roof and any ledges upon which the wily old man might be hiding. Becoming more and more frustrated and worried, he investigated everywhere for a second time. 

It was dark by time he located his quarry outside. The source of his annoyance was lying on the collapsed porch roof at the back of the house. The roof had fallen in such a way that it rested at almost its original angle. Instead of its support being from posts, it came from the ground. Mac presumed the posts, which had once held it up, were somehow underneath it now. But the roof itself appeared quite secure propped up on the ground as it was, or at least it was supporting Methos' weight. It was missing more than one shingle and the remaining amount was faded beyond the point of deciphering its original colour. However, as Duncan leaned against the fallen roof, he tested and approved of its sturdiness. 

Methos seemed oblivious to the highlander's attentions. His gaze was fixed on the sky above. Apparently the stars and moon hanging in their expected positions were of far more interest than Duncan's sudden appearance. Or perhaps, Mac conceded, the old man was in yet another trance and didn't realize anyone was near him. But at least Methos did blink occasionally, suggesting something was going on in the mystery they called his mind. Another sign of improvement was an open bottle of wine Methos held in one hand. It had obviously been liberated from the recently revealed area in the basement sometime during Connor's visit and Duncan's subsequent search. There were also a few celery sticks next to him, clearly taken from the bag Mac had left in the den earlier that day. So the ancient man was possibly eating and drinking. It was more than the highlander had dared hope that morning. He decided to remain silent, unwilling to shatter the peaceful quiet enveloping them at the moment. Instead he turned his eyes to the black blanket of night and the thousands of lights woven in it.

"Guiding lights."

The voice had been so soft and unexpected that Duncan didn't realize someone was speaking at first. The spoken sentence was missed but the gentle tone was remembered, and the sorrow still contained within was noticed. "What?"

"Guiding lights, those stars. At least that's what an astrologer will tell you. Your destiny in lights, all up there for the world to read. You ever hear that?"

"Yeah, I've heard that," responded MacLeod, turning his head to look at his friend who continued to look at the stars. "When I was a kid, my father used to tell me that the stars were all the great chieftains before him."

"Ah, yes, the great ancients are watching from above." The words dripped of sarcasm. "I've heard that one too. Most clans and tribes tend to have that theory, in fact." Methos paused, straining his vision as if to see what the stars might hold. "Poets claim the stars are these wonderful orbs of light that flicker and blink and do all sorts of fanciful things that make them magical. Romantics will tell you about objects that foretell soul mates and make a night's walk so lovely. Old sailors claim the stars are guides, able to bring people home safely and lead groups away from danger." He stopped his deep examination of the sky, allowing his eyes to view his subject matter normally again. "Then you have parents misleading their children with stories of stars granting wishes and making miracles. And then there are those who fancy themselves writers, but bother to write cheesy lines about pinpricks in the cloak of night and the sun's babies staying up late." He snorted. "Darn fools always ignore the truth."

"Which is?" MacLeod had almost been too afraid to ask, knowing that the answer would not be the least bit uplifting. He was not wrong.

Methos briefly looked at his friend, catching his eye easily. "That they're all lies, of course." The Neolithic man returned his attention to the stars. "Stars are just burning balls of gas, using up all their fuel until they burn out and then implode; just ask any scientist. There's nothing magical about 'em. They exist millions and billions of miles away from us, in the cold vacuum of space, just racing to their own extinction. Not a thing romantic about that, is there? They've changed their position in the past, and they'll do it again. You can only see them when the weather's decent. How that makes them the great guides of legend is far more a wonder than the stars themselves. They don't make dreams come true, or even fit the ridiculous descriptions they're given. You ever realize that, Mac?"

"I don't know if I'd go that far."

"Why not? Those things are hideous."

"Stars aren't hideous, Methos."

For a second they shared a glance, just a quick look to measure each other's resolve, before looking back that the burning balls of gas in the cold vacuum of space.

"From far away they look fine, I'll admit. But if you ever got close to one, it'd burn you alive in a heartbeat. Quite ugly when you see them as they really are. Take away all the myth, and they're inhuman monstrosities consuming all that they are until nothing's left but a big gaping blackhole. Scientists even say some are already burnt out, we simply haven't realized that they're dead yet. Can you imagine how many stars we romantically describe as living beings winking at us, but have actually been dead for years?" Methos released a short humourless laugh. "Still, people will look up and create odes to the stars. They'll mention whimsical lights being scattered close to one another in the night sky, and the truth is stars are light years apart. There are no friends up there, Mac, just strangers slowly dying alone with only themselves to provide warmth. Science doesn't view stars as wondrously as everyone else seems to prefer."

"No, I guess not." 

"Fantasy wins over fact every time, highlander. What a dreamer calls twinkling; a scientist calls an angry eruption of fire, flaring up on the star's surface. While dreamers prattle on about the order of the stars and tell stories of Orion and the Great Bear, astronomers declare that there is no grand order. Stars merely exist wherever they happen to be, and there was no great plan in their creation, simply chance. Dreamers will tell adults and kids these farfetched theories all the time, trying to believe that stars are more than what they are. Not that I blame them, mind you. The reality is rather depressing when you think about it."

Methos sniffed, sat up and took a swig of wine before offering the bottle to MacLeod who politely declined. With a shrug, the ancient man placed the bottle beside him, positioning it so that it wouldn't tip over or fall. He then began eating the celery sticks. Occasionally, he would glance up at the stars, but only briefly and never without an accompanying sigh. 

MacLeod watched him, silently trying to determine the depth of his friend's despair. The highlander could easily recall looking at the stars as a child and being filled with hope and wonder, imagining the previous chieftains watching over him and waiting for him to join them. After his banishment from the clan, Mac still dreamed of one day being welcomed into their ranks. While he'd read about what stars truly were long ago, he'd always felt they gave hope. Even tonight, while searching for Methos, Duncan had spared a moment to look toward the heavens, asking for guidance from the stars. Though they'd refused to grant him council, he had returned to his task feeling a refreshed hope inside him. 

But Methos was seeing despair where he saw inspiration. Though wanting to believe that his friend was better, that he'd worked through his pain, MacLeod could not ignore the painful truth. Methos' mind and body where functioning well, his physical health was not in jeopardy despite the violence the night before. Methos' soul, however, was fractured, the shards producing a drained, battered and beaten imitation of the man who once seemed to have a bottomless pit of hope. In Mac's mind, he could recall time after time when the oldest immortal had dared to dream the impossible, had risked everything on a long shot, had looked at him as if surprised there had ever been any doubt, had courageously had faith when everything named him a fool for doing so. Yet, here was the body that once housed such a creature, and all there was inside was a tired, broken soul burning out. There may have appeared to be life there, but Mac knew something was dying.

"Is that what you see when you look up there?"

Methos looked at him, a slightly confused expression on his face.

"The stars, is that what you see when you look at them? Is that what you tell kids? That they're dying balls of gas lost and lonely in the cold sky?"

"Of course not," Methos said calmly. "I do have a heart."

"Then what do you tell them? What do you say you see when you dream?"

Methos finished the food in his mouth, his eyes downcast. He looked up as he lay back down, and thought. He was silent as he contemplated an answer. Just as MacLeod was giving up on ever hearing the old man again tonight, Methos spoke.

"They're going to kill me, Mac. All those people in the world are going to want me dead soon enough." The voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Methos—"

The oldest immortal continued speaking, either ignoring MacLeod's intended protest or not noticing it at all. "The myth of Methos is going to crack in a week, maybe two. Then they'll see me, plain old me who is where he is by chance. No guide. No advisor." He began ticking the negatives off on his fingers. "No wise sage. No hero. No adventurer. No saint. No one they want." Methos ran his hands over his face before speaking again. "I'm just the guy who's gotten lucky and, oh yeah, happened to be the scourge of over two continents for over a thousand years and earned the cute nickname 'Death.' They'll never believe I didn't lie at the negotiations. They'll never trust me or like me. They'll never even want to see my face again. Do you realize the only thing that may keep me alive for more than a month is the idea that I may bestow historical details and answer some archeologists' burning questions? And once they know I'm not going to be talking endlessly about my past, it's off with the murderer's head and good riddance!"

"It won't be like that. We'll stand up for you, and they'll see you as everyone at the shelter does."

"Oh, come on, Mac, be realistic!" The elder shouted angrily. "I don't want to hide a huge part of my youth. I can't. People will find out about the Horsemen and then it's bye-bye head. And it won't matter what you or Connor or Joe or anyone else says, they are going to want blood for my crimes and they're going to get it."

"It doesn't have to be that way."

"There's no escaping the inevitable. What kept me alive the last time mortals knew of immortals is going to be what kills me this time." 

"Don't talk like that, Methos. You have a lot of living left to do."

"The time for dreams is over. What I've done… would you believe I'd changed, knowing how little I seemed to react to the deaths of friends?"

"Everyone at the shelter knew you were in pain," argued MacLeod. In his mind, he could hear Pear's request to help Sweet Pea. "They worried about you and hoped you were at least crying in private."

"But they must have known I wasn't. That will come out."

"They knew you had a good reason."

"Really? And what reason would that have been? 'Cause I'm heartless and unfeeling?"

Duncan frowned, barely resisting the urge to reach over and try smacking some sense into his oblivious friend. "No, because you were too hurt and vulnerable to open up to just anyone at a time when you had to stay focused to keep others you cared about alive. Or maybe because later you knew if you did open up, every emotion would erupt like it did last night."

Methos was silent for a long moment, absorbing the highlander's insight. When he did speak, his voice was hushed with sadness. "I didn't think it would erupt. Not before last night, anyway. But sometimes when you take down your shields, you can't put them up again. I couldn't be so raw for this war. I had to shut down certain bits."

"You shut down everything in the car last night," Mac mentioned. 

"I used a trick I learned from before I can remember. I conditioned myself to handle pain so much, but never joy. Guess I forgot I'd feel that again. When the treaty was signed—even when those idiots were being dragged away, I couldn't deal with the relief very well. It was either turn everything off or turn everything on." He gave a careless shrug. "Luckily, I ended up doing both."

"Are you feeling better?"

"I don't think I would be so coherent if I wasn't." Another shrug. "Not that it matters. Emotionally sound or not, the great illusion that was Methos is now me and me is a dead man. And, therefore, Death is a dead man, huh."

"He is n—YOU are not a dead man. They will see you have changed."

"Right, of course, I forgot about the mounds of irrefutable evidence we've secretly been storing. Where did we put it all again? Land of the Sugarplum fairies, was it?"

"You made a treaty to end an international war and got it signed."

A mirthless laugh halted Mac's argument. "I made the treaty to get the Hell out of the shelter."

"You know as well as I do that you could have escaped without it and been safer."

"I was willing to start a nuclear war to get out. How much rational thinking do you honestly believe I was using?"

"You still decided on the treaty and peace."

"Yeah, fat bit of luck that is. Once the truth comes out about me, that ohh-so important piece of paper will be burned on global television to the applause of billions. If they don't chuck it sooner."

"Connor said it's being well received around the world."

"Riiiiight, and there aren't any protests because everyone suddenly loves immortals huh?"

"There are a couple. One's being planned for when we pick up Joe. But overall, I think people have had enough time to digest what the treaty proposed and agree with it. They'll not kill you for it, or for what you did thousands of years ago. You proved in those talks who you really are."

"And then the truth will come out and prove who else I can really be and then it's time to find the next oldest immortal."

"If they try to attack your integrity, I'll mention so many people you've saved and helped, heads will spin. You will have so many supporters, you will be safe."

"Too bad the mob against me will outnumber my many supposed supporters."

"Stop it."

"Stop what? Being honest?"

"Stop acting like you're a lamb awaiting the slaughter. You're not. And I won't let you become one. So just stop it!" Methos turned to look at him. The old man's expression was unreadable, but he was listening. "This treaty is holding. Other nations already want to sign it. Everyone at the shelter is concerned about you and for you. There isn't one of them—not one—that wants you to be hurting anymore and they'll be damned if they're going to let anything happen to you. Tomorrow we see Joe again and if you're talking like this and he still used a cane, he'd hit you upside the head. Hard. And you know it."

"How touching."

"I'm serious, Methos. Whatever you need, we'll be there for you."

Methos raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? You do realize I'm not changing for them? Adapting may have gotten me this far, but I'm not becoming a totally different person just to save my neck. I'm not apologizing for what I've done. I won't be asking for forgiveness or crying false tears to win anyone over. And I'm going to avoid as much responsibility as possible. I'm going to tell quite a few people to get lost and never fake being the least bit sorry for it."

"So, in short, you're going to be you again."

This comment seemed unbelievably comical to Methos. He erupted with laughter, and then fell back with the vibrations still shaking his body. He laughed so hard, tears were forming in his eyes. His hand quickly wiped them away. Slowly, the laughter subsided, replaced by sobs. MacLeod climbed onto the fallen roof and moved close to his friend. Before he was able to gather the oldest man into his arms, Methos sat up and turned to face Mac.

"I can't be me."

"Yes, you can," Mac murmured the assurance. "It'll be okay. We'll figure out something."

Methos shook his head vigorously. "You don't understand. I…" He sniffed, trying to hold some tears back. "I'm not well, highlander. I'm thinking of letting others fight my battles for me. I don't want a position that offers power and some security. I am worrying about strangers liking me, for goodness sakes."

"So you need a therapist," Duncan said carelessly. "Connor and I figured that when you zoned out in the car and then tore apart your room last night. We'll get you help." 

"And then the whole world will learn that Methos is psychotic. That ought to help my situation a lot." He closed his eyes and hung his head.

"We can do it discreetly. They'll never know."

"They're neither blind nor stupid, MacLeod. They will find out the truth. There's no escaping it."

"Then run."

Methos' head whipped up and large eyes stared in confusion at the highland warrior leaning against the fallen roof. "Run?"

"Yeah, run," Mac repeated. "Leave this place. Find somewhere you can heal in peace, and stay there as long as you have to."

"You, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, want me, the current Immortal Ambassador, to run and hide?" Methos pursed his lips for a second. "Okay, now I'm having bad hallucinations."

"You're not hallucinating. I'm serious. Nothing says that the one who signed the treaty had to be chained to being the ambassador. Connor or I can fill in while you're gone. Methos, I've always known that you are one person who should never be trapped, and I'm starting to see that that's exactly what you are." 

"So… you want me to… run away… from my problems," the current Immortal Ambassador said slowly. He was clearly having difficulty comprehending his friend's suggestion.

"Not run away from your problems," Duncan clarified. "Go some place where you can deal with everything without the world watching. And when you're ready, come back."

"And you're serious?"

"If you leave now, I could honestly say I don't know where you are when Connor comes tomorrow." 

"You are serious." Methos breathed the words. He stared in disbelief at his friend. "Duncan, who do you see when you look at me?"

MacLeod quickly searched his mind for something good and useful to say. The question had to be answered delicately. Unfortunately, nothing Darius or Sean Burns ever said seemed to fit with this particular problem. Joe, for all his wisdom and insight, had never predicted Methos in this predicament and, therefore, had never given any of his usual, blunt advice on the topic. His father certainly had never mentioned how to handle a question that threatened to hurt a dear friend, perhaps send him hurdling into the abyss. His mother, however, had. Or at least she'd helped him when he had been as uncertain as his friend. 

"Yew are Methos," Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod said firmly. The memory of Mary's words had awakened his Scottish burr. "And yew are my friend. And no one can take that from yew. Yew give help instead of advice. Yew talk over beers, instead of lecture. Yew are one of the greatest friends Joe and Amanda or Amy or anyone could hope for. Yew are the oldest immortal because yew have earned that title with your own blood and tears. Yew are far braver than yew think, and far more caring than yew want others ta believe. But we know who yew are. I see 'im whenever I look at yew. Yew are Methos."

The recipient of the speech took a deep breath. "I see."

Mac, on the other hand, was holding his breath. He impatiently waited for his friend to say something more, anything. But all Methos did was turn away, laid back down, and stare at the stars again. His reaction was unsettlingly non-existent.

"Methos?" The highlander ventured when he could finally wait no longer. 

"If that is how you see me—as unrealistic and delusional as that is—then why do you seem to believe I would go scurrying away at a time like this?" Methos chided while he kept his eyes on the sky above. "I've got some freedom again, friends. Tomorrow I get to see Joe. And if I'm trapped, I'll find a way out. I just need to look at things in the proper perspective and I work it out. Even Kronos said I was a survivour. You really should know me better than this."

MacLeod tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile. "I guess I should."

"Damn right, you should. I mean, just how many times do you think I haven't felt trapped? I'm a five thousand year old man who looks thirty, couldn't say his real name or age in public, has had to hide the names of former students, friends, and family for centuries, and who had to change to fit into a world that has to switch fashions and traditions as often as it creates new slang. I'd be inhuman if I didn't feel trapped." The teasing tone was warming the highlander. "And needing a shrink? My mental health improves while talking to a friend like you, thank you very much. Not with someone I barely know and don't trust. And, when, precisely, did you think I was anything remotely resembling sane? Being friends with watchers, trying to talk sense into thickheaded Scots, thinking Nick might turn Amanda legit? Running off to get a peace treaty signed and suggesting we wouldn't be attacked? Perhaps you're insane for believing me."

"Perhaps." Duncan lay back on the fallen roof. Finally, he felt relaxed. 

"Yeah, most likely. Both of us, crazy. Connor, too. Heck, the whole world really. Guess that's why we fit in so well."

"Joe always said the world was full of nuts."

Methos chuckled slightly. "Gods, I hate it when he's right."

"Hey, you were right too, about the treaty."

"I think the correct term for being crazy and right is 'lucky'."

A comfortable silence fell. Out of the corner of Mac's eye, he could see a small smile on Methos' face. It brought a full smile to his. What was going through the ancient's mind was, as usual, unknown, but if it kept him grinning, Mac wasn't about to question it. 

In his own mind, Duncan was planning the future. He knew he was no Darius or Sean Burns. But what he lacked in education, he could make up for in contacts. Hopefully Liam would welcome the opportunity to probe Methos' psyche, just to make certain the old man was *too* crazy. Or he could ask Joe. Though no longer able to play a guitar due to arthritis, the blues man's mere presence had a way of soothing one's soul as his music once did. The retired watcher was much quieter and reserved in his old age, but Methos didn't seem like he needed a talker. He simply needed someone to listen and occasionally say something to prompt reflection and further talking. So he and Connor could be options as well. Even Amanda if she decided to stay close by for more than a month. Or they could all take turns to play therapist so that the state of the oldest immortal's mind was publicly viewed as nothing less than fine. 

"Any word on Samuel and Lucy?" The inquiry abruptly derailed the highlander's train of thought.

Steeling himself for the pain, he answered. "I'm sorry. A few more of Cara's people finally made it to the Shelter yesterday. They confirmed your friends didn't make it."

Methos nodded once, some tears visible in his eyes. "I thought as much."

"Could you tell me about them sometime?"

Swallowing the lump forming his throat, the Neolithic man began. "I met Samuel for about an hour three hundred years ago. He was in the jail cell next to mind. We talked a bit. He was a rather happy fellow, despite his unfortunate position. Then I was released and never saw his smiling face again. We only started talking again because his girlfriend, Lucy, had found a chess puzzle book I'd forgotten at Cara's. One night she contacted the shelter to ask how I had solved one of the puzzles and Samuel happened to be in the room with her. We used to talk and try to solve the remaining puzzles."

"That's all you did?" Somehow, he had expected to hear about close friends who knew treasured secrets. Casual friends playing games hadn't come into the picture.

"For a little while, Mac, we pretended all was right in the world and that our biggest concern was how to get checkmate in less than six moves. I miss them."

"I am sorry."

"Isn't everyone?"

After a beat, Duncan asked what was next.

"Oh, well, a traditional blood oath to guarantee you're the ambassador. I'll play advisor, but that's it." Methos continued before Mac could ask if he was serious. "Before that though, I believe we can enjoy one night under the stars."

"Are you still seeing things dying up there?"

"Still?" The old man snorted in disbelief. "I never see things dying when I look at stars, MacLeod. I was just saying what some people see when they look up."

"So what do you see?" 

"The same things I've seen since Kronos asked me that question thousands of years ago. You know, he saw the stars as sort of peepholes for the gods who were too afraid to get any closer to us."

"Methos."

"See the second star to the right of the dimmest star in that cluster," Methos said while pointing. "That star is for when the treaty was signed. And the star right above us is the day we became friends. And if I could find the little dipper, I'd show you Alexa. She's the top of its handle."

"Really?"

"The star right after it is when she said she loved me. I pointed it out to her on a beach in Santorini. She loved the idea."

"I can understand why."

"Which one would you say Tessa is?"

Duncan inspected his choices before pointing to a small group of stars to his right. "The brightest star near the middle, the one that looks like it's twinkling, that's Tessa. She always sparkled."

"Who's next to her?"

"Debra," the Scotsman replied with a certainty that surprised himself. "She would have to be there."

"And let me guess, the two stars just above them and off to the right, those are your parents?"

MacLeod briefly pondered that. Both stars were bright and, the more he thought about it, they almost looked like a pair he remembered seeing on other nights while stargazing. "Maybe. Should I introduce you?"

"Nope," Methos said smiling. "The star about three from your parents on the left is Don, I believe. Donald Saltzer. No doubt he's told them all about me. Complaining about how I never told him the truth about myself. That's why he seems so far away. Luckily, I think Byron is close to him, burning as brightly as ever. Don loved Byron's work."

"I'm sorry I--"

Methos waved the apology away. "Don't be. There's a star near Orion's belt that marks the end of Byron's tragedy. You did the right thing, don't regret that, not even for my sake." Eager to change the topic to something happier, the ancient immortal pointed to yet another star. "That one is when I got my lucky baseball. Is that back at the Shelter now?"

"Yeah, Connor was using it distract some of the people who can't believe Sweet Pea is the Big Enchilada."

"Don't tell me I've got another food nickname," Methos groaned.

"Okay, I won't. But I will say there are a few immortals wanting to talk to the Big E."

"Who and what about?" the elder male grumbled.

"Keane and Peaches for starters. They're having a hard time reconciling the man they met with thee Methos."

"There's a star in Torres for Keane's one track mind, and one in Aries for Peter's desire to protect young Sweet Pea. And the really bright one near Byron and Don is for the laughs I'm going to have talking to those two."

"So these are what stars are to you, huh?"

"I see the markers of our lives, highlander. Up there, scattered like glitter over the night sky, lay our past successes, and future opportunities, all the friends and family we have loved and lost. They show all the many accomplishments we've had, will have, and can have. They do not dictate our fate; they merely reveal the billions of possibilities in our lives. The stars are, to me, a panoply of everything that makes the dark less bleak, and the night less lonely."

"The star in the distance, close to the horizon directly before you, do you see it?"

Methos focused on the star, pursing his lips in concentration. "What about it?"

"I think that's the marker that everything's going to be okay."

A smile spread across his face. "You know, I think it is, Mac. I think it is, indeed."

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

"And after all

The dead ends and the lessons learned

After all

The stars have turned to stone

There'll be peace

Across the great unbroken void

All benign

In your time

You'll be fine

In your time."

--("In Your Time" Lyrics: Bob Seger)

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

THE END


End file.
